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Funk & Waunau.;^. Puui.isihehs, 10 and 1-2 Dky Street, New York 








A NEW BOOK B V JO SI AH ALLEN’S 

WIFE. 


• ‘ S WEET Cl CEL Y ; or, JO SI A H A LL EX ASA POLITICl AX.” 

01 thrilling interest. Over 100 illustrations, square 12mo, 
[ cloth, $2.00. 

I “Josiah Allen’s Wife” has always been a shrewd observer 
of human nature as it reveals itself in the round of homely, 
every-day life, and the keen sarcasm and adroit huuK-r with 
which she lays bear its foibles, its weaknesses and its grotesque 
outcroppings, has rarely, if ever, been equalled. The strong 
feature of all Miss Holley’s humor is its moral tone. 

Editor Union Signal says : “ Josiah Allen’s Wife’s new book 
! ‘Sweet Cicely ’ comes from the very depths of her heart. It 
is quaint, hutnoroivs, original. She strikes hard blow'S, but 
with a velvet-gloved hand.” 

I 

Mis.i Rose Elizaheth Cleveland says : “ My former experience 
with Miss Holley’s books induces me to expect great good and 
groat enjoyment in her new book, ‘ Sweet Cicely.’” 

Miss Francis E. Willard says: “ Mcdern fiction has not fur- 
nishetl a more thoroughly individual character than ‘Josiah 
Allen’s Wife.’ She will be remembered, hon red, laughed and 
cried over when the purely ‘ artistic ’ novelist and his heroine 
have passed into oblivion. She is a woman, wit, philanthro- 
pi.^t and statesman, all in one, and I prophesy that ‘ Sweet 
j Cicely’s’ gentle, firm hand shall lead Josiah Allen’s Wife on- 
ward into literary iumu.rtality.” 

! 

1 Will Carleton says: ‘‘It retains all the i;eeu]iar spicy flavor 
j <•( her former works, and is b tt. r than any of the because 
of its alternate patbos anil humor.” 


FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers, lo & I2 Dey St., N. Y. 


DADDY DAVE 


BY 



NEW YOKE: 

FUNK & WAGNALLS, 

10 AND 12 Det Street. 

1886. 




/ 





Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1886, 

By PUNK & WAGNALLS, 

In the OflBce of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. 


STo ®f)oge 

WHO, AS SLAVES OR FREEDMEN, WERE FAITHFUL TO THEIR 
MASTERS AND THEIR HOUSEHOLDS DURING THE 
DARK AND SORROWFUL DAYS THAT ACCOM- 
PANIED AND FOLLOWED 

OUR CIVIL WAR, 


THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED, 


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V 




PEEFACE. 


In preparing this little volume for the press, the 
main if not the only incentive has been to pay a 
tribute of affection to a faithful and beloved family 
servant, who, under the most trying circumstances, 
never faltered in his fidelity to the trusts confided 
to him. Faithful as a servant, kind and affectionate 
as a friend, he was the general adviser and protector 
of my widowed mother during long and weary years 
of severe trial, and with her desired earnestly and 
watched for the day-dawn of that dark night of 
civil war that for years enveloped the South as with, 
a pall. 

An additional design, also, in preparing this 
sketch, was to correct the too prevalent notion that 
the relation between all masters and all slaves in 
the South, while that relation existed, was one of 
cruelty and oppression, and that the slave, without 
exception, was under a bondage greater than that 
which has ever oppressed any people in a similar 
condition. It is not our intention to defend the 
system of slavery, nor to indorse it in any form, 
whether the subject be llach, red, or white ^ but to 
demonstrate that among that certain class of persons 
known as slave-owners, who by inheritance found 


VI 


PREFACE. 


themselves the possessors of those entirely depend- 
ent upon them, accepted the trust as a sacred one, 
and conscientiously gave themselves to the moral 
and religious instruction of those thus providentially 
placed under their care. 

By kindness, example, and that familiarity that 
begets affection, a bond of love grew between the 
master, the mistress, the children, and the slave, 
which no subsequent circumstance, neither life nor 
death, nor principalities nor powers, could break 
in twain. This fact is illustrated in numerous in- 
stances, where the slave, now a freedman, clings to 
his master under all circumstances — an instance of 
fidelity and affection not surpassed in the history of 
any people. 

And we know and can assert — and our testimony 
is true — that this book itself would not contain the 
names of those who might be inscribed, who as 
slaves and freed men were alike trusty, faithful, and 
beloved servants under all surroundings as our 
‘‘ Daddy Dave.’’ 


DADDY DAYE. 


PART I. 

GETTING READY FOR WAR. 

It was the spring of the year 1861. The tocsin 
of war had sounded through that broad, sunny land, 
giving warning that the conflict was soon to begin. 
One failed to realize that anything so calamitous as 
war was near at hand in this calm, quiet country, 
with the sky so blue and the air so balmy. The 
trees were full of the song birds, and not yet had 
the mocking-bird learned to imitate the discord 
around him as he flitted from branch to branch of 
the great spreading oak, but still poured forth his 
own sweet song, heeding only the sunshine and not 
the shadow of the war-cloud. Yellow jasmine 
and long gray moss vied with each other in the 
graceful festoons that fell to the ground from the 
branches of the live oak. The atmosphere was red- 
olent with perfume from the orange and magnolia, 
and the ear was soothed and charmed with strains 
of music wafted from the cotton-fields that spread 
far away on each side of the road. Methinks I can 
hear even now the sound of hundreds of voices, 
following the plough and the hoe in these vast 


8 


DADDY DAVE. 


fields, carrying unconsciously the different parts of 
the tune in their own peculiar way. I am sure I 
shall never hear sweeter melody than came from 
their throats as they sang the Old ship of Zion” 
and ‘‘Don’t get weary, brudder.” These strains, 
mingled with the soughing of the pines, were borne 
to us on the billowy air, and produced upon us a 
kind of dream life that now belongs to the “days 
that are no more.” 

The home at Greymoss was all astir ; busy hands 
and aching hearts were contriving comforts for 
those soon to share the hardships of the soldier’s 
life. The mother in this old Southern home had' 
watched the war-cloud for a year past, from the 
time when it was no larger than “ a man’s hand ” 
till now the heavens were overcast, and each day it 
seemed ready to burst in fury upon the land. She 
was a Christian mother, of noble heart ; in the peace- 
ful tenor of her life she illustrated the charms that 
form a character of exquisite refinement and culti- 
vation ; and now, when the country would be in- 
vaded and the foe must be faced, she was disclosing 
to those around her courage in danger, and fortitude 
to suffer the woes which her common-sense told her 
were ahead in the days to come. 

Mrs. W was the type of a Southern matron ; 

her hospitality was dispensed in a generous manner 
— not lavish, but in perfect taste, and in accord with 
her surroundings. Her husband had been dead 
several years, leaving her with a large estate, and 
only one of four sons old or wise enough to aid her 
in her business duties. I often think of her execu- 


GETTING EEADY EOK WAR. 


9 


tive ability, and cannot understand how she planned 
and managed so wisely and well her various depart- 
ments, unless we accept old Aunt Sibby’s explana- 
tion of it all — that ole missus kin neber stan’ un- 
der de lode onles she git strent f om de trone, an’ 
she go dere all time ob de day, an’ you kin hyar 
’em axin de Lord, an’ He’s alwais dar, an’ lets de 
blessin’ fall.” Her presence was required on three 
plantations in different parts of the State ; her boys 
were at college, and she could tell her visitors just 
where they were translating in Greek and Latin, 
and how far they had progressed in higher mathe- 
matics. A tutor or governess was a sine qua non 
at Grey moss in the education of the younger chil- 
dren who were girls. The home was ample in its 
appointments, and a large circle of friends and ad- 
mirers considered it a privilege to be found in its 
shelter. This old ancestral place was one among 
many Southern homes from which the glory de- 
parted a score of years ago, but its picture will live 
in memory. The mansion was a few miles from 
town, and remote also from the scream of the 
steam- whistle. I used to think, on nearing the 
house through the avenue of live oaks, with the 
long gray moss hanging from every branch, surely 
this place was one of rest and peace. The big 
white gate, on the approach of a vehicle, was always 
thrown open wide by Cuffy, whose sole business 
seemed to be to stand there and laugh each visitor 
a welcome from his great mouth full of the whitest 
pearls. A carriage-round, in front of the gallery, 
was formed by hedges of mock- orange and banana 


10 


DADDY DAVE. 


shrub, while the inside of the circle was gay with 
the many-colored japonicas, or camellias, as they are 
known in the North. On gaining the steps of the 
gallery Daddy Da\^e was in his place to open the 
carriage-door, wave you inside, and make you en- 
tirely at home. 

After this long introduction to Greymoss, let me 
begin my sketch by describing this factotum to 
you ; though in the outset I disclaim all ability for 
the undertaking, and wish I could use the brush 
instead of my pen on this occasion. 

Re, with many others of his race, had been 
handed down from one generation to another, till 
at this period he was the oldest relic of the happy 
past. The snows of many winters seemed piled 
upon his head, leaving, as with intent, a forehead 
broad and high enough to hold his great silver- 
rimmed spectacles, whose ends were tied with a 
white cotton string at the back of his head, and lost 
in the great woolly mass. The spectacles per- 
formed their valuable service to him by ‘‘stayin’ 
whar he put dem, and neber gittin’ loss.” These 
spectacles were almost the size and quite the form 
of the old silver watch that had rested, silent^ in his 
pocket for the past fifty years, and which he took 
out every night and wound up carefully, shaking it, 
and holding it to his ear with the exclamation, “ 1 
wunder whut matter wid dis instermm^/ it wus yo’ 
gran’par’s, honey.” His great white crown was 
never molested, excepting on Sunday mornings, 
when he would be seen sitting on a bench in the 
sun outside his cabin door, using his “ Jim Crow” 


GETTIl^G READY FOR WAR. 


11 


(very much like a pair of cotton cards, only of finer 
teeth, with which negroes used to loosen and cleanse 
their hair). This operation was peculiar to the 
negro in ante-helium times, and required unusual 
perseverance and skill, and, as Daddy Dave used to 
tell us, kin only be did wunce in a week, lessen 
nigger’s ha’r all cum out by de rute.” 1 never re- 
member Daddy Dave but in a dress of his own 
style — one or two ‘‘swallow-tail” coats left by 
the old master, much too ample in their proportions 
for his stumpy little figure, but which were ever 
appropriate to all times and occasions. Around his 
neck he always wore a high-standing collar, which 
to my childish mind furnished the question why his 
ears were never cut ofi, and just beneath was one 
of the ancestral stocks, which, doubtless, served its 
purpose one or two generations back, but which 
was a remnant of aristocracy to which Daddy Dave 
fondly clung. His feet were usually clad in slippers 
down at the heels, “ for no ’spectable nigger want 
to mek racket in de buckrer house.” On state 
occasions his short, fat little hands were slipped 
into white cotton gloves too long in the fingers, 
which would flap in the breeze made by his swift 
gliding from room to room, doing the honors of the 
house so gracefully for ‘ ‘ ole missus, now dat ole 
marster is gone and de boys too yung to tek charge. ” 
A hat was a useless piece of dress to him, and when 
the rare occasion of covering his head came about, 
it was done in the shape of a drab-colored silk hat, 
which he called his “ churn,” wljich never went 
out of fashion, and increased in dents as the years 


12 


DADDY DAVE. 


wore on, but was always “ ’spectable,’’ because 
‘‘ de ole-time gemnien wore jes’ sicli as dis.’’ A 
new black hat was offered him when Colonel 
W died, as all the house servants were fur- 
nished with mourning, but he protested, Dis 
churn was wone by yo’ gran’par, an’ a finer gem- 
men neber lib’d ; an’ whut’ mo’, dat black hat 
neber kin mek de mo’nin’ eny blacker ; my h’art’s 
ni’ bustin’ wid greef rite now.” 

We have seen Daddy Dave outside ; now let us 
see his inner man. His character through life was 
always that of one of nature’s noblemen, although 
with a black skin and kinky hair. Honest and 
truthful, affectionate and tender, and faithful to 
every trust. He was the Fidus Achates of that 
home, and when old master died — younger by many 
years than Daddy Dave — the widow and the chil- 
dren were left to his care, and most nobly did he 
fill his trust. What would the family at Greymoss 
have done without Daddy Dave and his old sister, 
Sibby, who was the ‘‘ Mammy” of the home ? His 
duties were not special, but many. Up at the 
“ crack of day,” and never abed till the big house 
was quiet and the lights all out. He was heard in 
the early hours appointing the work for the two 
gardeners, inspecting the dining-room boys, and 
seeing that the kitchen duties were promptly and 
properly done. When the carriage came to the 
door he was always there to help ole missus” in, 
and see that the horses were well harnessed and the 
coachman and footman in order, for he said, “You 
kin neber trus’ de yung trash to hab t’ings in 


GETTING READY FOR WAR. 


13 


order.” Once when his mistress insisted upon his 
going with the family on a trip from home, think- 
ing a change necessary for him, with a very low 
bow and flourish of his hands he said, Well, mis- 
sus, I be bery plese to go wid you, mam, but when 
I cum back I flne dis place gone to ’struction. 
You kan’t ’pend on dese niggers ; dey tek too much 
wachin’.” The truth was. Daddy Dave was never 
so happy as when following the hands.” 

There was unusual activity at Greymoss. In the 
quarters” among the pines, a few hundred yards 
from the white house, one saw a restlessness among 
the women and children as they hurried to see 
every face that passed by their doors, and on going 
up to the house Daddy Dave was found in his usual 
garb and place on the gallery ready to admit visit- 
ors, but his old welcome was not seen in his bright 
eyes and smiling face. Once during the morning 
his pent-up feelings found vent in the following 
conversation to one who had called to bid the young 
soldiers farewell : 

Bery mo’nful times hyar now ; glad ole master 
gone up hi’, ’fo’ dese t’ings happen. Our fo’ boys 
— eben leetle Johnny — ’s gwine to de war, gwine 
to flte for de cuntry, gwine to Fort Sumter in two 
days ; an’ whut ’peers to me so cur’us, ole missus 
is gettin’ dem reddy, a- cry in’ an’ a-prayin’, an’ 
cryin’ an’ werkin’. An’ den sez 1, ‘ Ole missus, 
ef de ’kashun is so tarryflyin’ to you, whut mek 
you let de boys go ? ’ Den she sez, sez she, ‘ Dave, 
mi boys mus’ not stay at home ; dey mus’ flte for 
de cuntry ; ’ and den sez I, ‘ ’Sposen dey gits kill. 


14 


DADDY DAVE. 


den what ? ’ an’ she say, ‘ Ef it’s de Lord’s will, den 
it’ll all be rite.’ Well, ole Dave doan see it in dat 
lite. I ain’t no C’rishun ; but ef 1 wus as hi’ in 
grace as de ’Possle Paul, 1 would not gib wiboys 
to ketch de bullets of dem cussed Britishers. It’s 
all a p’ece of ’tarnal foolishness — not to call it 
wuss !” 

Daddy Dave’s remarks were interrupted by Mrs. 

W ’s coming into the library with the stain of 

fresh tears upon her sad, sweet face. A red flannel 
shirt was on her arm, upon which she had fastened 
the last button. One could see her heart was 
breaking under the quiet attempt at cheerfulness, 
for around her on four chairs were spread the four 
new uniforms with the brass buttons and gilt tape, 
shining in the sunlight that came in so merrily at 
the window beside them, and all ready to be donned 
on the morning when they would march away. 
Donald, the eldest son, had graduated at the Law 
School, and now occupied his father’s office in the 
town near by, but had closed and barred its doors^ 
and was at home with his mother. Henry, the next 
son, had taken one course of lectures in the Medical 
College in Charleston, while James had been pre- 
paring himself for business in a college in Balti- 
more. John, the youngest, was in the Theological 
Seminary in Columbia, in order to proclaim the 
glad tidings of the Gospel. The four sons had en- 
listed in the regiment which volunteered from the 
town, where were most of their friends and com- 
rades, and had come home to spend the last few 
days with their mother and sisters. They were en- 


GETTING READY FOR WAR. 


15 


joying one of the last seasons of communion, when 
in came Daddy Dave, with something upon his 
mind evidently, which found expression after a few 
moments spent in tenderly and carefully handling 
the bright new uniforms. One of the boys said, 
‘‘ Well, Daddy Dave, you will be very lonesome 
when we all go away to the war.” 

We felt it to be a moment of great importance 
when we saw the old man go through the unneces- 
sary performance of feeling for his spectacles in 
their usual place, for we never saw them anywhere 
else, and after assuring himself in this particular, 
with a prolonged clearing of his throat and a very 
low bow, he answered : 

‘‘I gwine wid you all,” and turning to Mrs. 

W he continued, It will never do to sen’ de 

boys off wid de yung trash. Joe an’ Pete an’ Dan 
is bery good fellows, as far as dis worl’ goes, but 
dey has neber bin to de battle as I is, an’ dere 
mout be ’spicions ob dey ackshuns not bein’ like 
dey ancesters, who, sum ob dem, carry bof de drum 
an’ de muskit, an’ wus no shame to de name, 1 can 
tell you. ’ ’ 

, But who will take care of mother and the chil- 
dren and the plantations ?” said the young master. 

“ Dat matter is all ’ranged. When de brash 
fus’ spring on us, me an’ bro Isaac an’ bro Jacob 
an’ bro John, we had a meetin’ in mi hous’, an’ 
we ’greed dat, bein’ as I is de oPest an’ no mo’ 
’bout war — you no I fo’t tru de Bebolushun — dat 
1 better go ’long to see dat t’ings goes ritely. 
’Sposen dem boys git sick or tek de small-pox ; 


16 


DADDY DAVE. 


Dan an’ Pete an’ J oe nos no mo’ dan a baby 
whedder to gib dem sasafrac or catnip-tea, or 
wliedder to keep de foot cole or de bed hot ; dem 
yung niggers no nnttin’ ’bout de puls or de succu- 
lashun, an’ all dese partikulas has to be looked atter ; 
an’ den, mam, when ole marster died, he sed, sez 
he, ‘ Dave, 1 goin’ home now, an’ I want you to 
tek car’ ob mi fambly ; stay by yo’ missus an’ raze 
mi chillun rite ; ’ an’ now it’s not mi kalkelashun 
to hab fo’ ob dem go off to de battle an’ me stay 
wid dem dat’s in no danger. An’ den annudder 
considerashun is dis : bro Isaac an’ bro John an’ 
bro Jacob is good men, missus, ’ligious men dat 
kin carry on all de plantashun gangs, an’ de hous’ 
niggers, ’sides ’ten’ to de pra’r meetin’ ob nites, an’ 
look atter ole missus an’ de chillun. An’ den, agin, 
dar’s sis Sibby an’ sis Betty an’ ole Aunt Lucy 
dat kin ’ten’ to de lyin’ -in women an’ de babies, an’ 
see to de spinnin’ an’ de loom-hous in bad wedder, 
when ole missus kan’t git out, an’ ’sides dat keep 
t’ings pert in de hous. Eberyting is ’ranged, an’ 1 
jes’ cum in to brek de news dat I gwine away to 
you.” 

Then Daddy Dave took from his pocket a piece 
of white cloth supposed to be his handkerchief, 
wiped his mouth vigorously, and again assuring 
himself of the safety of his spectacles, continued : 

Now, ole missus, I tink it my duty to go wid 
de boys, ’spechily leetle Johnny, what was gib to 
me to raze when his par die, an’ ef enyting happen 
to dat boy widout ole Dave, den in de ju’gment- 
day 1 be ’sponsible, not you. Dar’s no trubble 


GETTING READY FOR WAR. 


17 


’bout de plase ; all de brudders an’ sisters gwine 
look atter de young ones, an’ I dun tell bro Isaac 
wbeneber lie dribe you an’ de cliillun to de riber 
plantasliun, be mus’ hitch ole Ned an’ ole Bill to de 
carrige, for nobody mus’ dribe dem two big skit- 
tish bays till I cum back, lessen it is when dey go 
up to de station for de prechers. You no if dey 
is good men, dey like to see dose bays pat de bred 
out de plate.” 

‘‘ All that you have said is true, Dave,” replied 
the mistress. “ I am willing that you shall go to 
the army with the boys ; but I shall feel that my 
right arm has been taken from me, though 1 know 
all the negroes will do their duty, and be kind and 
true to me. But I think, after you get the boys 
fixed in camp and their comforts arranged for 
them, you can return to us, for it will soon be time 
to plant the cotton, and after that the hoeing. I 
do not see what I will do when the picking season 
comes in the fall, for you are my main dependence 
at the cotton-gin, to weigh the baskets and manage 
the screw. It will be a new charge for John and 
Jacob, but we will be provided for, no doubt.” 

Clutching the back of the chair where he was 
standing, as if a new surprise had overtaken him. 
Daddy Dave said : 

‘‘ I declar’ to God, ole missus, you speak as if de 
war gwine las’ alwais. All we want is jes’ to sho’ 
dem Britishers what stuff we’s made on. I no 
dem like a book, has met dem befo’, an’ dey tink 
dese Suddern boys made fo’ nuttin else but goin’ to 
college, an’ den cum home an’ dribe fas’ horses, an’ 


18 


DADDY DAVE. 


go fox-huntin’. But dey’ll fine out de mistake 
when dey see de pluck. We’ 11 gib dem jes’ wun 
roun’, an’ dey’ll tun dey backs in a hurry. Ole 
missus, tain gwine las’ long, when dey seed as we’s 
in yarnest. You jes’ be prayin’ at home, an’ we’ll 
be fitin’ in de war ; an’ ef de Lord hyar dem pra’rs 
an’ anser dem, sho ’nuff, we cum back to you in no 
time ’tall.” 

‘‘Dave, you know life is very uncertain, and I 
am as anxious about you as about the boys. You 
are not prepared to meet your God, I am afraid. 
You have lived in sin a long time, and nothing 
seems to give you any anxiety about your immortal 
soul. And now you are going away, and may 
never return. 1 shall pray for you, that God will 
change your heart and make you one of His dear 
children, even in your old days.” 

Daddy Dave was still standing, but with the grip 
of one hand upon the chair somewhat relaxed. 
Having paid the usual delicate attention to his 
spectacles with the other, and arranging his facial 
muscles into a very solemn expression, he an- 
swered : 

“Missus, all you say is de trute, mam. Dere 
neber was better niggers dan sis Sibby an’ sis Betty, 
and bro Isaac and bro John. We’s all de chillun 
ob de same fambly ; but sum seems call’d and sum 
don’t, an’ I is wun ob dem dat libs widout callin’. 
Yo’ grate-gran’ Y^ar, whut no’d me when I wus a 
boy, kin tell you neber a lik went on mi back, by 
oberseer [overseer] nor buckra ; de only heatin’ 
eber dun wus by mi own daddy, and he draw de 


GETTING KEADY EOR WAR. 


19 


bind ebeiy time ! Ole-time peeple tinks lickin’ 
mek joung niggers grow. No, mam, I neber stole 
a ponn’ ob cotton, nor a pec’ ob corn, not eben a 
pinder ; no lie eber res’ in ole Dave’s mouf, an’ de 
mos’st sin I eber do was swarrin’. Ole marster in 
hebben, no hissef dere is sum mules an’ sum niggers 
so t’ick-beaded dat cussin’ is de only ting dat kin 
mek dem move. It’s better dan de lash. But 1 is 
too ’spectable to use dis kine ob languige fo’ de 
buckra. Sis Sibby say dis is mi besottin’ sin, an’ 
will neber go out but by pra’r an’ fastin’. Dis is 
de onliest sin I kin ’member at dis time, mam, an’ 
dis doan cum fum de li’art ; an’ I tink, considerin’ 
how ole 1 is, an’ dat I bin ’sosheatin’ wid de buckra 
all mi life, ef Gabriel do blow de trumpit while I 
gone, de gate will open wide an’ ole Dave go rite 
in. Leastwise, 1 hab lef ’ word for sis Sibby — you 
no she is bery hi’ in ’ligion — an’ de res’ ob de 
niggers to pray bordaciusly while I gone. I ’umbly 
tank you, mam, for yo’r intruss ; yo’rpra’rs is bery 
lam’d, an’ will go ni’ de trone.” 

Daddy Dave had for many years been under a 
delusion in regard to his services to his country. 
One of the uncles in the colonel’s family had fought 
through the War of 1812, and the old man, then in 
his prime, had been body-servant. The children 
were often regaled with reminiscences of this part 
of his life, and in all of them he, his drum, and his 
gun bore conspicuous places. These equipments of 
war hung in his home till the day of his death. 
From many lessons in history overheard by him in 
the nursery concerning the Be volutionary War, he 


20 


DADDY DAVE. 


fancied no harm could ever come to our land except 
from the British. The experience of the next few 
months dispelled this impression very thoroughly. 
For a short time before the last interview with 
Daddy Dave we would see him, late in the after- 
noons, go to his house, fasten a cockade on the side 
of his churn, and put the drum -strap over his 
shoulders and go off in the direction of the town. 
We always felt sure he was going to call together a 
torch-light secession parade ! 

That day and the next Daddy Dave’s “ swallow- 
tails” could be seen performing many tangents as 
he passed from house to house on the plantation, 
under his great burden of responsibility. His high- 
standing collar and ebony face, adorned by the in- 
evitable spectacles, formed a striking contrast in the 
sunlight as he darted in and out of the pine grove. 
First in the blacksmith-shop, to tell old Pompey 
how many new ploughs would be needed, and how 
many old ones must be sharpened, for the incoming 
crop ; and then into the loom-house, to sis Binky, 
to see that the filling should be half cotton and half 
wool, so the cloth would go farther, now that 
soldiers’ garments must be provided ; then to the 
dairy, to instruct Aunt Dinah to have the old cows 
turned into the pasture, and bring up the young 
heifers to be milked ; rock-salt must be used for 
the butter, and twenty stone jars of balls put up 
for winter use ; to be sure to give the babies plenty 
of milk, and the young children as much buttermilk 
and clabber as they could use ; and from each place 
he retreated with the admonition to ‘‘be fait’ful to 


GETTII^G READY FOR WAR. 


21 


your trus’, ’cos I be back some fine mornin’ ’fore 
you no it !” 

The last day at home was a quiel one ; all prepa- 
rations for the going had been made, and the mother 
and sons were sitting in the library for the last 
time — for two of them at least — she giving them the 
tender admonition which only a Christian mother 
can give, and they in turn promising her ever to 
keep in mind her entreaties to be soldiers of the 
Cross, and, whether the return would be to her and 
the earthly home, or to a heavenly one, it would 
be well. Daddy Dave’s slipper-heels were heard 
pattering the hall fioor ; the conversation was inter- 
rupted, and in a moment he came into the room in 
an unusual excitement, and without much hesitation 
began : 

Ole missus, one bery important ting you hab 
neber tort about, an’ dat is mi unyform. Now, it 
doan matter what Pete an’ Joe an’ Dan war, so 
dey is dene an’ got good warm close, but for a 
pusson who has fout tru one war, an’ now gwine to 
anudder, it ’peers to me I ort to hab some marks 
’bout me. An’ I was gwine ter propose dat ole 
marster’s fine unyform, whut’s lyin’ in dat drawer 
dere,” pointing to the drawer of the secretary, 

an’ de morts etin’ dem up, mout jes’ as well be a- 
doin’ good. I mout jes’ as well hab a fu tings dat 
won’t perish.” 

Before Mrs. W could express herself in re- 

gard to this surprising demand, the drawer was 
opened and these sacred relics of the past were 
brought to view. The coat, pantaloons, vest, hat. 


22 


DADDY DAVE. 


boots, gloves, and sword were taken ont separately 
and gently, and the following conversation seemed 
to be awakened by the sight of each article : 

“ Oh, chillun, I wish you could a seed yo’ par 
dat day ; he was a fine gemmen, sho nuff, an’ when 
I medetate on dese subjecks de ways ob Probidence 
is bery strange. I ’member when dat boy was 
born” (tapping the coat with his finger), ‘‘an’ 
when dey name him, an’ den follow atter him till 
he was grow’d, an’ den ole rnarster — dat’s yo’ 
gran’par — sez ee, ‘ Dave, it’s time for Donal’ to go 
to de college, and 1 spec you hab to go wid him an 
tek car ob de boss and him, when he git sick.’” 
By this time each article was carefully laid on a 
chair, and Daddy Dave was on his knees by the 
drawer. “ Yes, chillun,” he continued, “ me and 
him stay at college tree year, your gran’par bo’ din’ 
me an’ him an’ ’Sefalus — dat’s de hoss, you no — 
me a-ridin’ ’bout, an’ him a stud’ in’ in gogafy an’ 
’Sisro, an’ gettin’ shocks, an’ surbayin’ de groun’, 
an’ all dem hi’ books.” Punning his fingers 
through the feather on the cocked hat, he kept on : 
“ As 1 wus a- tollin’ you, de da cum for de ’viewin’ 
de troops. W ell, dat day yo’ par wus on de finest 
big bay, wid plenty ob trimmin’s, fust de hoss rare 
up on de fo’legs, an’ den on de hine legs, wid de 
epilets shinin’ like gole on de sholers, an’ de long 
white fodder in dat hat bio win’ in de win’.” By 
this time Daddy Dave eased himself down on the 
floor, as the narrative was to be a protracted one, 
and continued : “ An’ when de bosses rare up behine 
an’ befo’, ole missus — yo’ mar, dere — she an’ yu 


GETTIlSra READY FOR WAR. 


23 


boys was ridin’ in de carrige, an’ bro Isaac, he wus 
a dribin’, ’cos no nigger but Dave eber tech de 
colonel’s hoss ; I walk on de pabement, wid wun 
eye on ole marster an wun eye on de carrige, and 
she moshun fer me, an’ she sez, ‘ Dave, yo’ marster 
will be fro’d from dat hoss an’ be kill ; ’ an’ den I, 
sez 1, ^ Missus, doan yu be oneasy ; he not gwine 
ter fall ; he sottin’ dere jes’ like he in his cradle.’ 
Chillun, yo’ mar alwais wus nervus like, an’ 1 no’d 
if she holler’d out, or fainted, or sich like, she 
mout sturb de meetin’ ; but atter a while we got to 
de State Hous, an’ dar wus ole Dave wid his han’ 
on de boss’s bit fo’ yu kin wink yo’ eye. Dat wus 
a big day. How, ole missus,” carefully unfolding 

the coat and turning to Mrs. W , ‘‘ please, 

mam, gib me de two palmetto-trees on dis coller, 
an’ dese epilets ; mite sho’ de Britishers dat I wus 
no common nigger, ’sides lookin’ fine in my Sunday 
cote ; sis Sibby gwine ter so some stripes down my 
briches’ legs, an’ I also gwine to ask for de tops ob 
dese cabalry boots, all molin’ in de drawer fo’ not 
bein’ used ; an’ as for dem glubs — well, niggers 
kan’t bodder wid dem.” 

Here he paused for a reply to his several ques- 
tions, when Donald remarked : 

‘ ^ Daddy Dave, if I were you 1 would not wear 
the epaulets, for they will make you too con- 
spicuous ; why, they will be a fine target in the 
sun, and you will be shot as soon as you go on the 
battle-field.” Donald felt his last remark to be a 
superfiuous one, but mentioned this fresh danger 
that might arise to draw the old man out. 


24 


DADDY DAVE. 


The old man arose from the floor, adjusted his 
spectacles, and said : 

“ Tank you, young boss, for spekiid de trute. 
1 declar 1 nebcr see dat pint befo’ . Sho ’nuff, I 
won’t hab dem epilets, for mi life am too serbicable 
to de cuntry to git shot rite in the start.” Look- 
ing at Mrs. W he said, ‘‘ Well, mam, ef de 

reques’ am satsfactry, I will tek a few ob de brass 
buttons, which sis Sibby gwine ter put on mi cote ; 
de palmetto-trees an’ de boot-tops.” The mistress 
nodded assent, and he began to replace the hat, 
pantaloons, and gloves in the drawer, when James, 
always full of fun, said : 

‘‘ Daddy Dave, why don’t you ask for the hat 
and feather ? It will be so becoming to your com- 
plexion !” 

His hands were in the drawer, and keeping them 
there. Daddy Dave looked over his shoulder, and 
with his voice fallen deep into his chest and a most 
solemn expression of face, replied : 

‘‘ Boy, you stop dat racket. What kine of a boy 
is you, enyhow ? Dis no time for spote ; de cuntry 
all a mo’nin, an’ yo’ mar dere a-brakin’ her h’art, 
an’ you hab de feelin’s to poke fun on dis sad 
okashun ! Ho, sar, de churn, what yo’ grate- 
gran’ par lef’ me, is good ’nuff, an’ 1 gwine ter sho 
de Britishers de arstocrasy 1 usen to lib wid ; an’ 
den, too, if dey shute at de churn, dey won’t hit 
de skull, dat’s so !” 

Shutting the drawer, and folding the coat across 
his arm, to be shorn of some of its ornaments by 
Aunt Sibby, with the boot-tops in his hand, he 


GETTIH'a READY FOR WAR. 


25 


glided out of the library with his usual complacence 
and his face beaming with satisfaction. 

The next morning dawned its usual way at Grey- 
moss ; the yellow sunlight making long lines in the 
pines on one side, and at the same time played its 
hide-and'Seek game in the moss-coYered live-oaks 
on the other. Each little bird was giving its matin 
song as merrily as if every heart on the old place 
was as gay as its own. The flowers, too, in open- 
ing their sleepy eyes, sent out their sweet perfume 
to help in this beautiful spring scene. But nature 
was not in accord with the sorrowful mood of the 
old plantation. The bell that hung from the high 
pole in the main street of the quarters” was not 
rung that day, as usual, for the hands to go to the 
fields. All were waiting — men, women, and chil- 
dren — to say good-by to the young masters, who 

went away that day. Mrs. W had sent out an 

order early that morning by Daddy Dave, that all 
the negroes should come up to the yard and stand 
around the gallery — even the babies in their mothers’ 
arms — to shake hands with the boys. All were in 
their places at the appointed time. The large car- 
riage with the bays was in front of the door for the 
young gentlemen, and the wagon to convey the 
servants behind it. The soldiers carried their bag- 
gage on their shoulders, carefully packed in their 
knapsacks, and were to take the train at the station 
a few miles away. These four robust, splendid 
specimens of manhood, in their uniforms fitting 
them so gracefully, were types of the Southern boy 
that many homes were giving up that day ! The 


26 


DADDY DAVE. 


mother remained with her sons and the little 
daughters in the library till the good-bys were over, 
and we must draw a veil over the parting scene, 
even upon the double blessing she must have given 
her baby boy ! There was stillness both in and out 
the house, broken only by the tramping of the 
horses’ feet and the sobs that came from the many 
throats, almost choking the prayer of each one, 
‘‘ God bless you, young marster !” as the hand was 
shaken and the good-by was spoken. Daddy Dave, 
followed by Joe, Pete, and Dan, went into the 
library to get ole missus’s” blessing, all silent ex- 
cept their leader, who with the tears running down 
his face, said : Farwell, ole missus,” and handing 
her an old rusty key, tied with a very much soiled 
cotton string, said : Dis is de key to mi hous, 
whar all my property is, an’ I no dat you will see 
to it dat nun ob de niggers go in dar till I cum 
back. Farwell, an’ may de Lord persarve us all 
to mete agin. ’ ’ 

This dark procession then proceeded to the gal- 
lery, where, after shaking hands with Aunt Sibby 
and the rest of the house servants, he waved a 
good-by to the crowd outside. Of course his ex- 
ample was followed in every particular by Joe, 
Pete, and Dan. Daddy Dave then mounted the 
box of the carriage, motioning to his dusky ‘‘ com- 
panion j-in-arms” to get into the wagon, and taking 
the reins out of Uncle Isaac’s hands, said : “ Lemme 
dribe dese bays wunce mo’, an’ see dem pat de 
bred out de plate.” 

A glance at Daddy Dave was enough to make 


GETTIN-G KEADY FOR WAR. 


27 


one laugh amid the crying ! Sure enough, there 
were the cavalry boot-tops on the outside of his 
pantaloons, whicli sported a gay stripe of red flannel 
down each outer seam. His coat, one of the old 
‘‘ swallow-tails,” was bedecked in yellow cuffs and 
profuse in brass buttons, and on the collar, each 
side, was a palmetto-tree, which he had doubtless 
sat UJ3 half the night to burnish. The old gray 
beaver hat, his churn,” was, of course, in its 
place, with the addition of an immense green cockade 
given to him by some of the “ Minute Men.” His 
general appearance was the combined effort of Uncle 
Dave and Aunt Sibby, who were regarded by their 
own color as connoisseurs in all matters of taste and 
propriety ! 

After the partings were over the hands went to 
the fields, and the women and children to their 
cabins, all filled with an indefinite idea of some ap- 
proaching calamity, yet scarcely realizing the sad- 
ness or importance of its nature. Coming days 
were fraught with a burden of pain and sorrow. 
That beautiful sunny morning without made the 
darkness and gloom of the mistress’s heart blacker 
by contrast — so black there seemed not one ray of 
light to cheer, and no voice to speak peace but the 
one that said, “ Lo, I am with you always.” 

The home was lonely now, and the heart was 
emptied of its best treasure. When it was day 
she longed for the darkness and rest of the night, 
and finding this a disappointment, welcomed the 
morning light, praying for the fiight of time, that 
the end might come, however heavy its burden. 


PAKT 11. 


^^TILL DEATH DO TJS PART.” 

Three days after tlie departure of the young 
soldiers the booming of cannon was heard in the 
distance at Greymoss from early in the morning till 
late in the afternoon. 

The mother’s heart was quivering with fear for 
her loved ones ; the negroes, young and old, quitted 
their work, and lingered around the big house for 
any word of comfort that ‘‘ ole missus” could give 
them. Late in the evening Uncle Jacob mounted 
the pony and went to the station to see if there 
was news for the people at Greymoss from the bat- 
tle. Messages had been flying along the wires all 
the afternoon, but nothing deflnite was known till 
near midnight, when the operator called out, 

Here is a despatch for you. Uncle Jacob. ” Many 
anxious old men were among the eager listeners, 
who were waiting at the station for news from their 
sons or relatives. Feeling there was a common in- 
terest in this telegram, the operator read aloud, 

‘ ‘ The boys are safe ; the battle is over ; we got the 
victory, and not a drop of blood shed.” Signed, 
“ Old Have.” 

Can any one imagine the great joy and relief 
brought to these many anxious hearts by the old 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


29 


(( 


}f 


negro man’s tender thonglit for his mistress ? To 
know that sons, brothers, and fathers were spared, 
and a bloodless victory, too, seemed too much of a 
blessing to these hearts that had been filled with 
bitter forebodings of ill. All was stilled in that one 
Vi or d— safe ! 

The good news of the fall of Fort Sumter was 
brought to the different camps on the adjacent 
islands around Charleston after nightfall, and the 
fact of no blood being spilled was beyond the com- 
prehension of Daddy Dave ; his mind was not 
quieted till he had seen the boys face to face, and 
had assured himself of their entire safety by ’zam- 
inin’ dem an’ makin’ sho dere wus no marks ’bout 
dem.” 

On one of the first boats that went to the city 
after night Daddy Dave was a passenger — not to 
rejoice over the victory, but to ease ole missus’s 
mine” by a telegram. On arriving in the city he 
found his way to the telegraph- office, walked in 
with his churn in his hand, said to the man then 
busy clicking the wires : 

Is you de gemmen dat works dis machene ?” 
On being assured of the fact, he went on : ‘‘I 
gwine ter sen’ a ’spatch to mi ole missus ; jes’ as 
quic’ as pos’ble, for she dun hyar dem guns all 
day, an’ not a wink ob sleep gwine to her ise for 
prayin’ an’ cryin’ ober dem boys whut’s not got a 
scrach on one ob dem.” 

This remarkable specimen in color, both in uni- 
form and manner, attracted a score around him, 
who were ready to ask many questions in regard to 


30 


DADDY DAVE. 


his belongings ; but seeing his earnestness and de- 
termination, allowed the following parley to pro- 
ceed between the old man and the operator : 

‘‘ So plese, marster, sen’ ’em as quic’ as yu kin, 
an’ ’member to put ’em in mi languige, for mi' 
missus onderstan’s Dave widout eny big words or 
hi’ spellin’. Say, ‘ De boys is safe; de battle is 
ober ; de bictry is ours, an’ not a drop ob blood 
spilt. Old Dave.’ hTow, boss, kin you mek sho 
de ’spatch ’ll go dar fo’ bedtime, ’cos 1 no bro 
Isaac or sum ob de people from Greymoss boun’ to 
be at de station to tek home de good news. If wun 
of dose boys, ’specilly leetle Johnny, git kill, den 
ole missus go plum crazy wid greef.” 

Taking out an old leather purse, doubtless an 
heirloom handed down from the fourth generation, 
he took out a bill, laid it down on the desk after 
asking for the charge. The amount was paid, and 
running the purse as far as practicable down his 
breeches- pocket. Daddy Dave turned to the lookers- 
on, and bowing himself out, said : 

‘‘ Good-night, gemmen ; I mus’ hurry back bi 
de fust bote to de ilan, to hab de boys and dem 
young niggers reddy for de mornin’.” 

Days lengthened into weeks. Letters were fre- 
quently received at Greymoss from the boys to their 
mother, but as the warm weather was advancing 
the news was not so cheerful. Donald had been in 
the hospital in Charleston with an intermittent 
fever, and John had chills in camp. Digging and 
throwing up the fresh earth for batteries and breast- 
works had produced malaria, and hundreds of 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


31 


n 




soldiers were suffering from it. Dan, Pete, and 
Joe were very well. The lazy life of blacking a 
pair of boots once a day, rubbing a gun, and pre- 
paring the scanty allowance of a soldier’s fare 
agreed with them ; and being accustomed to the 
hot sun of the cotton-field and the miasma of the 
rice-field, they were proof against chills and fevers. 
Daddy Dave performed the usual routine of duty 
quite pompously, as far as they related to the young 
persons of his own color, and in a very fatherly 
way to the young bosses but always carried 
about him the consciousness of his own aristocracy. 

Chills and fevers spread through the camps, and 
Daddy Dave became restless — indeed, was very 
unhappy over the health of the boys. One morn- 
ing he was seen in his dress uniform making obei- 
sance at the colonel’s tent, and being a person of 
great interest to the ofiicers, several of them 
gathered round him to listen to his talk, which was 
always very original. The colonel advanced and 
called out : 

Well, old man, what can I do for you ?” 

Daddy Dave, holding his churn in one hand, and 
fixing his specs with the other, bowed and scraped 
the ground with his left foot, and replied ; 

Colonel, 1 cum hyar dis mornin’ to consult wid 
yu ’pon a bery ser’us matter, and dat is mi young 
marsters. You no bery well how dey wus razed, 
an’ neber use’ to dese akomodashuns, dese kine ob 
etin’, an’ dis kine ob sleepin’, an’ de hot sun, an’ 
de san’ puttin’ out dey ise. I not menin to hert 
yo’ feelin’s, colonel, for yu is doin’ de bes’ yu 


32 


DADDY DAVE. 


kin in de sitiiashiin. Now, Joe an’ Pete an’ Dan, 
wlmt wus use to de sun, an’ sleepin’ hard, an’ 
cookin’ dey own kittles ob rice an’ ’tater, dey doan 
mine, for, to tell de trute, niggers’ skin wus made 
for de hot stm, an’ dey dusn’t hab chill an’ feber. 
But I tellin’ you de blessed trute, sar, ef you doan 
let my young marsters leve dis cuntry, dey’ 11 be ete 
up wid de chill, an’ after goin’ to de trubble ob 
gettin’ reddy for war, it’s a tousand pities to be 
ruin’d hyar.” 

‘‘ There’s good logic in what you say. Uncle 
Dave,” replied the colonel, ‘Mmt we must obey 
orders, you know ; somebody will have to stay here, 
and I suppose General Beauregard thinks we are as 
able as any other brigade to stand it.” 

Colonel, I mean no dis’spect, sar ; but you no 
Donald is in de hospital in Charleston, an’ Johnny 
down wid de chills in camp rite hyar, an’ ole missus 
ritin’ from home ebery day an’ sayin, ‘ I will look 
to Dave to fotch de boys home ef dey is sick,’ an’ 
po’ ole Dave neber so no ’count in all his bo’n 
days ; kan’t do dis an’ kan’t do dat an tudder wid- 
out goin’ to Captain, or Colonel, or General Some- 
body — mybody ’ceptin’ dose dat you ort ter ax — 
an’ dat’s de yung marsters deysefs. Ef you doan 
git me satsfacshun, den I gwine rite to de Gubner 
hisself, an’ put de matter befo’ him ; an’ eder hab 
de boys go home to dey mar, or den to a helty 
cuntry. Wid tankin’ you for yo’ ’tenshun. Ibid 
you good-day, colonel. ” 

Daddy Dave returned to the tent with more 
humility and less pomposity, and marvelled upon 


‘^TILL DEATH DO US PART.’’ 33 

what a queer thing ‘‘ war is, and how a gemmen ob 
de ole stile gits to be nobody in de army, no matter 
whut kine ob close he wars, or how fine his uny- 
form rnout be.” 

The old man’s desire was accomplished very soon 
without applying to the ‘‘ Gubner,” for the eyes of 
the contending forces were turned to the frontier, 
and Virginia was becoming the camping-ground. 
The regiments, many of them, were sent up to Vir- 
ginia, and among them the Fifth. Donald, after leav- 
ing the hospital, was transferred to the artillery, and, 
taking Pete with him, was ordered with the battery 
farther down the coast to Port Poyal. The other 
three boys passed up to Virginia without getting a 
furlough, even for a few hours, to see their mother. 
Of course Dan and Joe had to endure the soldiers’ 
disappointment, and did not stop to see Aunt Dinah 
or Aunt Pinky. 

Daddy Dave felt the importance of his going to 
the plantation for a few hours to look around there, 
and appeared at Greymoss the morning that the 
soldiers passed on to Virginia ; he arrived before 
breakfast, having sent a telegram to “ ole missus” 
the night before, lest his sudden return might suggest 
some great sorrow. He was greeted with tears of 
joy from little and big, young and old, and on his 
own part rejoiced to see ole missus,” and hugged 
and loved the little ones ; but disclaimed all inten- 
tion of abiding long at home, becos de boys kan’t 
git along widout me, ’specilly goin’ to a nu cuntry 
wid dem yung niggers, whut neber trabel befo’ ; 
dere’s no tollin’ how wool-gaderin’ dey mout be an’ 


34 


DADDY DAVE. 


’tend to no comfort for de boys. No, I gwine 
roun’ to-day an’ see dat de bizness is squar, an’ den 
git on de ole gray mare an’ go ober de feles, an’ 
see if de cotton is cumin’ up reg’lar, an’ whedder 
de corn is dene. Bro Isaac mete me up de abenue 
an’ say dat I is home in anser to pra’r, an’ bro 
Jacob an’ Uncle John say de werk is bery hebby 
since I lef’. It is a dreful pity dat de bluded colt 
git kill on de rale-rode, an’ de fine Jersey heifer git 
swamp in de mire ; but den yu kan’t ’spec de 
place to go on altogedder rite when de hed,” 
putting his hand to his own head, is gone, an’ 
be jes’ as. if dey wus no war. I gwine back to- 
morrow, an’ Johnny, he ’lowed he wus powerful 
bad off for sumting from home in de way ob bittles, 
an’ you had better set Aunt Chloe and sis Liddy to 
werk an’ git a box reddy by dat time, for I tell 
Colonel Williams I be dar twenty-fo’ hours atter de 
regiment ; you must hab a turky or two, an ’ole 
ham, sebrul chickens, an’ cakes an’ bred cook, for 
de boys is mity tired ob ‘ hard-tac an’ beef.’ Dey 
dusn’t need eny close, for dey got mo’ dan dey 
gwine carry on dey backs dis hot wedder. Jes’ 
sumting to ete. Please, missus, put in de box 
plenty ob shuger an’ coffy, an’ neber mine ’bout 
de bigness ob de box, for bro Isaac kin tek it in de 
spring wagin to de rale-rode, an’ dar dey will tek 
eny ting fum de size ob a hous to a shin -plaster [a 
ten-cent Confederate note], jes’ so it’s got de name 
ob a soldier on it.” 

Daddy Dave’s visit seemed like a dream to the 
inmates of that home, it was so pleasant and so 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


35 


( ( 


>> 


quickly over. Mrs. W , though thankful to 

see the old negro and receive such cheerful tidings 
from the sons, felt the old life of loneliness and sus- 
pense must be taken up again, and time would drag 
its slow length along as usual. The very monotony 
of the home days would wear them away, and each 
setting sun would bring her one day nearer the joy 
of having the loved ones again at her side, or — 
could she bear the thought ! — of stilling that anxiety 
in the fact of their never coming again ! “ Thou 

knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter.” 

Daddy Dave’s welcome at camp was even greater 
than at home. He told of mother and the old 
home, how they were all doing, how fair the crops 
promised for the fall, and how ‘‘ fait’ful an’ tru 
ebery nigger on de plase bin to ole missus an’ de 
chillun.” The contents of the box was enjoyed by 
the boys and their friends, and Daddy Dave was 
careful each meal to put away a good portion for 
Dan and Joe, as long as the box lasted, ^Hessen 
dey mout git de scuvvy.” 

The troops had been on the march for several 
days, and were now in the neighborhood of Ma- 
nassas Junction. It was night; the tents w^ere 
pitched, and the evening meal was over, when John 
called the company together for the daily prayer- 
meeting. Daddy Dave was very particular to have 
Dan and Joe go to the prayer-meetings, for they 
were such “ hardened sinners,” but rarely patron- 
ized such gatherings himself. It was a weird, 
solemn sight to see more than a hundred men 
kneeling in prayer under the spreading oak, with 


36 


DADDY DAVE. 


no covering but the stars, and their seats upon the 
ground. The pulpit was furnished by the trunk of 
a tree, and here and there a hand bearing a torch 
to assist the young minister in reading a portion of 
God’s W ord and a hymn. Henry and James were 
always at these meetings, and on this occasion were 
attracted by a most reverential worshipper on the 
outside of the crowd. It proved to be Daddy 
Dave, and near him were Dan and Joe. The 
young master mentioned all those around him in 
prayer, and begged the dear Lord to fit each soul in 
His presence for either living or dying, and to 
those whose hearts had never been opened to the 
Gospel message he prayed that this very night the 
glad news of salvation might be carried by the 
Holy Spirit, and sealed for eternity. Then he re- 
membered so tenderly the dear ones at home, the 
mothers, wives, and little ones, that ‘‘He would 
give His angels charge to keep them in all their 
ways.” 

After the return to the tents Daddy Dave said, 
“ I alwais forgit to tell yo’ boys whut yo’ mar say 
’bout de Bible an’ pra’r-meetin’, an’ spen’in’ Sun- 
day, an’ goin’ to de chu’ch ; ef eber dar wus a good 
Crishun in dis world, it’s ole missus, an’ nun ob 
yo’ ‘ parlor Crishuns ’ neder, fo’ she act all she 
preech ; ef you b’l’eve me, de mornin’ I git home, 
fo’ de sun wus good up an’ de grass a-sokin’ wid 
due, I hyar a soun’ in sis Binky’s hous, as I wus 
gwine doun de abenue, an’ I stop an’ look in de 
do’, an’ dar wus ole missus, sho ’nuff, wid de leetle 
book, fus’ a-redin’, den down on de nees a- prayin’ 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


37 




?> 


for ’Siena lyin’ dar de bed wid de plu’isy. I 
didn’t ’sturb de meetin’, but went rite on to de 
big hous an’ see sis Sibby. She tell me de pra’r- 
meetin’ bin kep’ up ehry nite since we bin gone by 
bro Isaac an’ bro Jacob ’seechin’ de Lord to spar’ 
all de boys, bof black an’ white. An’ now, boys, 
1 ain’t no Crishun, 1 tell you, but dar’s a mity heep 
in pra’r, an’ 1 b’leve all tree ob you gwine be 
spar’d in de big battle whut’s cornin’ off. Johnny, 
he’s reddy ; an’ I no dis preshus minite ole missus 
is reslin’ in pra’r for Henry an’ James. So den, I 
ain’t gwine worry ; tain’t no use, nohow. Dem 
dat’s for you is mo’ dan dem dat’s ’ginst you.” 

Two days after the last conversation the battle of 
Bull Run was fought near Manassas Junction, the 
first bloody battle of the great contest, the begin- 
ning of what was to come. The boys were in line 
of battle from early morning, and it was touching 
to see Daddy Dave when the fact confronted him 
that he was not going with them. The order was 
issued the night before that the negro men sliould 
remain at the rear with the wagon-train. The old 
man clasped first Henry and then James by the 
hand and said : 

“ Good-by, chillun, an’ de Lord be wid you, an’ 
ole missus’s pra’rs be ansered an’ fotch you back 
wdien de battle ober, wid not a liar ob yo’ lied 
tech’d. But ef you do git struck, eder one, de 
udder mus’ cum to de reer an’ tell ole Dave sho 
’nuff, an’ let de ole man cum to dress de woun’s. 
Dan an’ Joe is not ’sperienced in dese matters.” 

His grandeur completely vanished when John’s 


38 


DADDY DAVE. 


turn for good-by came. ][^addy Dave took one 
hand in his old hard ones, and choking back the 
sobs to give utterance to his blessing, said : 

Good-by, honey — our baby boy dat I raze, an’ 
neber tink it cumin’ to dis — tak car ob yo’self ; 
you ain’t ’feard to die, but doan run in danger ; an’ 
if yu fall, tink ob yo’ mar an’ how she’s a-prayin’.” 

The smoke and din of battle was kept up till 
sunset. As each fresh volley of musketry or the 
booming of artillery was heard at the camp, Daddy 
Dave would call out to Joe and Dan as if to* ease 
his restless soul : 

‘ ‘ Mek hase dere, you lazy niggers, an’ hab sum- 
ting nice ready before de boys when dey cum back, 
all hungry like de wolf. Whut’s de use ob yo’ 
cumin’ to de army ef you ain’t gwine be bizzy ?” 

He knew well enough that ‘‘something nice” 
consisted entirely of beef and hard biscuit ; but the 
desire to give orders and see every one busy around 
him allayed in some measure the dreadful anxiety 
he was suiffering that day. His power of endurance 
gave out at sunset, and putting on his uniform he 
started for the battle-field, telling the “young 
trash” to “ stay dar till dey wus needed.” 

He had proceeded but a short distance when 
James and Henry met him in the road and called 
to him. Putting up his hand to shield his eyes 
from the setting sun, he exclaimed, “ Is dat you, 
boys, all safe an’ soun’ ? But whar’s Johnny — 
whar’s leetle Johnny ?” 

“He’s all right,” answered James; “ but I’ve 
got a little scratch,” and opening his shirt he 


39 


‘‘TILL DEATH DO US PART.” 

showed the old man a slight wound on the chest and 
a small stain of blood made by a fragment of a 
bursting shell. 

Dg Lord be praised for dis much, but I mus’ 
go an’ fine mi chile. ’ ’ 

After wandering about over the field in the 
twilight, over broken branches of trees, wounded 
horses, wheels of the cannon, and the many up- 
turned faces of the dead, he heard a familiar voice. 
It was in prayer. Daddy Dave stooped to look and 
listen in the gray twilight, and there he found his 
boy hovering over the form of a dying comrade, 
trying to stay the life-blood till the soul was com- 
mitted to the keeping of his Father in heaven. It 
was holy ground to Daddy Dave ; his great joy in 
having the young master returned to him ‘ ‘ safe 
and sound ” was lost in wonder and in awe at the 
scene before him ; and crouching down upon the 
ground, he sat in stillness. He was roused by John’s 
voice, which said, It’s all over, Daddy Dave ; let 
ns close his eyes, and again leave his soul to God’s 
keeping and his body to his friends here, who will 
take charge of it.” 

Leaving the few cornrades, all members of the 
same company, the old man and the young master 
began their way, by the light of the stars, back to 
camp in time for the evening prayer-meeting. It 
was a sad meeting. Many faces were missing who 
joined their voices in praise the evening before — 
some were in the hospital, and some had gone to 
meet their God ! 

Before the dawn of the next day Daddy Dave 


40 


DADDY DAVE. 


was more than half way to the Junction to send a 
despatch to the mistress to ‘‘ ’leve her mine ’bout 
de boys.” He told the operator, on entering the 
office, that he “ needn’t mine ’bout tellin’ dat 
James got a scrach on his chist, ’cos ole missus 
mout tink it wus a bigger bizness dan it is. Jes’ 
say, ‘ De boys safe, tank de Lord ; a big battle an’ 
de bind a-flowin’, but ole Dave an’ de boys not 
hurt.” 

The rest of the summer was spent in long 
marches, skirmishes, and battles, and the same re- 
port was made to ole missus” after each one. The 
autumn passed and the armies went into winter 
quarters, and, much to the pleasure of Daddy Dave’s 
energetic nature, there was ample scope for using 
his authority in bossing Joe and Dan in putting up 
a log-cabin for the masters and one for themselves. 
The making and daubing of the chimneys was also 
an anticipated pleasure, and fully realized by him 
when he saw the comfort and happiness afforded the 
soldiers when they gathered round the great wood 
fires whiling away the evening with their pipes, 
praising the old man for his success, and talking of 
home. Daddy Dave was, of course, the chief 
spokesman, much to the amusement of the officers 
and men, who came to the cabin from night to 
night to hear him spin his yarns. The ‘‘young 
trash” gained admittance on promise of silence 
“an’ no’in dey place.” As spring came on one 
could see the old man fail in strength ; he was 
much drawn with rheumatism, but all entreaties for 
his return home, both from Greymoss and from the 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


41 


<< 




young masters, proved unavailing. He insisted that 
the summer days would soon come and warm him 
up, and a little ‘‘ goose-grease” sent from home by 
Aunt Sibby would be sure to supple his joints. He 
could not bear the thought of leaving the army and 
resigning the nominal responsibility of the care of 
the boys. 

The campaign of ’62 was already opened. Early 
in April General McClellan began marching upon 
Richmond by way of Yorktown and the peninsula. 
Henry, from a hurt to one of his feet, had been 
transferred to the cavalry, taking Dan with him, 
and had joined Stonewall Jackson in the valley. 
General Jackson’s movement up the valley was to 
protect Richmond from the forces under General 
Banks, then bearing upon the Confederate capital. 
James and John were in General Lee’s army, and 
seemed to have charmed lives, having passed 
through the hottest of the seven days’ battle” 
around Richmond, the last week in June, without 
being wounded ; Uncle Dave seemed to believe 
there was luck about them, and looked for no 
trouble in the future. Having driven McClellan 
back, the Confederate Army moved northward in 
the direction of Washington, and there was fighting 
nearly every day. Finally, the last of August, the 
combined armies of Banks, Fremont, McDowell, 
and McClellan confronted the joint forces of Lee 
and Jackson, and the memorable battle of Manassas 
was fought on the 30th of August. 

Poor old Daddy Dave was wearied with the 
marching and countermarching ; but, being a great 


42 


DADDY DAVE. 


favorite in the brigade, he had an unlimited pass to 
ride either on horseback or in the wagon-train, and 
managed to come up with the bojs every night, 
and rejoice over them that they had escaped the 
field or the fever of the camp. Somehow between 
‘‘ ole missus’s” prayers and his idea of good luck, 
he had ceased to associate the life with danger, and 
his good-by in the morning was no longer a bene- 
diction, but a cheery Tek car ob yo’sefs, boys, 
an’ doan drink no muddy water, an’ doan ete nun 
ob dem green apples, ’cos I ain’t gwine to de hors- 
pittal dis hot wedder to nus you, an’ you no Dan 
an’ Joe got no ’sperience.” 

On Friday evening, the 27th, there was a great 
massing of troops around Manassas ; a double line 
of pickets were put out, and a general making ready 
for an encounter. Daddy Dave’s penetration told 
him a great battle was to come off soon. He grew 
very restless, and when evening came went with the 
boys to the soldiers’ prayer-meeting, and by his 
loud singing one knew he was unusually interested. 
After John had finished the hymn and a portion 
from the little Testament which he always carried 
in his pocket, and which was read by the light of a 
candle held by one of the men, he called the meet- 
ing to prayer. All was silent, when a queer sound 
came to them from the tree just above the young 
minister’s head. Daddy Dave was quick to recog- 
nize this bird of ill-omen, the screech-owl, and to 
the negro a certain messenger of death. Little 
heeding the voice in prayer or the solemnity of the 
meeting, he called out : 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


43 


cc 


if 


‘‘Yu Dan, yu Joe, dribe him away ; kill ’em, 
trow at ’em, de leetle debil, sho ’miff cum liyar to 
fotcli trubble,” all the while flourishing his staff 
among the tree branches and shouting to the two 
young trash. The unwelcome visitor was soon 
driven away and the prayer-meeting continued. 
But there was no more peace of mind for the old 
man that night. He followed the boys to their 
tent, but seemed inclined to talk and not sleep, and 
after midnight was seen going from camp to camp 
questioning the teamsters, who were trying to rest 
in their wagons, to know if the Stonewall Brigade 
had come into camp, so that he might get some 
tidings of Henry, whom he had not seen since early 
summer. He returned to the boys’ tent at day- 
break rewarded for his fatigue, not with seeing 
Henry, but hearing he was well, and that the 
brigade would be in the flght the coming day. 

Saturday was clear and bright, but very hot. 
The battle raged all day. The dark clouds of 
smoke, the booming of cannon, the clattering of 
the cavalry on the hills were sounds quite familiar 
to the ears of Daddy Dave ; but somehow to-day 
he was uneasy, and would have sought the battle- 
field but for a new honor which had been given 
him the night before for the morrow by General 

J . There were a few men in camp with slight 

wounds ; not severe enough to require hospital at- 
tention, and yet serious enough to keep the soldiers 
from the field. The old man was made camp sur- 
geon for the day and left in charge of these men, 
and fidelity to this trust kept him at his post. 


44 


DADDY DAVE. 


A few weeks previous John had been made cap- 
tain, and James was a member of his company. It , 
was the color company of the regiment. In charg- 
ing up a long hill that day, in front of the enemy, 
eleven men had been shot with the flag in their 
hands, and seeing the last man fall and the colors 
trail in the dust, John reached forward, seized the 
flag, and held it aloft. Again the staff was struck, 
but not broken ; James saw blood running down 
the captain’s sleeve, and cried out, ‘‘ Oh, John, 
you are wounded.” 

Kever mind,” said John, “ follow me ; it’s only 
a flesh wound in my wrist.” They followed the 
captain and his banner ; the top of the hill was 
gained, the battery was taken, the enemy was 
routed, the colors planted — but the arm that raised 
them aloft was still ^ the voice was hushed, the 
heart had ceased its beating, and there in the trench j 
below the battery was the lifeless form of the young 
captain. Scarce twenty summers had passed o^er 
that beautiful face, and another precious life was. 
sacrificed ! | 

The regiment passed on, following up the retreat,! | 
and the captain and his men, the rest of the fallen.; 
were left alone with God ! | ; 

The sun had nearly hidden his red face behind! i 
the western sky ; the din of the battle was over,| 
and no sound stirred the air but the neighing of al 
riderless horse or the moans of a wounded, bleeding; ’ 
man. The living army had moved on, leaving thq*. I 
field to the dead and dying ! j 

Daddy Dave was seen going in the direction oj^ ' 


'‘TILL DEATH DO US PAET.’’ 45 

the battle-field followed by Joe. Both were silent. 
On the old man’s arm was wound the linen band- 
ages that ‘‘ole missus” sent from home, and in his 
hand a small flask of brandy. This time he felt 
these things would be needed, for something im- 
pressed liim, on leaving the camp, that a search 
must be made that night for one of the boys, per- 
haps for three. So with a heavy heart he set about 
the painful duty. On the way his thoughts wan- 
dered back to a little more than a year ago, when 
he had met two of the masters near the same place 
he was now passing over, both safe^ and had found 
John at a post of duty on the battle-field ; this time 
he could not look for such good luck, and as he 
drew nearer the scene of conflict his heart grew 
sick. 

The dead and the dying were lying together, as 
the Ambulance Corps had but begun its work after 
the firing ceased. The old man, with bated breath, 
was picking his way along over the field, when he 
spied a soldier sitting against the trunk of a tree, 
and advancing to him quickly found he was not 
one of the boys, but a wounded man, who was try- 
ing in great feebleness to tighten the handkerchief 
around a limb that was bleeding. Daddy Dave 
knelt down beside the man, and handing the flask 
to Joe, took a piece of the bandage from his arm 
and gently and tenderly bound up the wound. 
Then motioning to Joe for the brandy, he un- 
screwed the stopper and put it to the sufferer’s lips, 
saying : 

Here, chile, tek dis ; it’ll strenten you till de 


4G 


DADDY DAVE. 


amb’lance cum fo’ yu,” and while adjusting the 
cork and putting away the brandy in his pocket, he 
continued, Me an’ dis boy hyar is jes’ huntin’ rni 
tree yung marsters ; dey wus all in de fite. 
Johnny, de yunges’ ob ’em all, he is captain in de 

Regement, an’ James is in his company. 

Henry is fitin’ wid Mars Stonewall Jackson, an’ I 
doan no but I cumin’ acrost him, too. 1 ’lowed 
mebbe yu mout tell me whar dis regemcnt wus in 
de fite, an’ I mout go to de spot an’ seek dem. 
Dey is bin tru so meny fites dis summer, an’ neber 
git a scrach, ’peers to me I kan’t ’spec’ dem to go 
tru alwais, an’ ef de good Lord’ll only let me hab 
dem alive j I kin nuss dem an’ tek dem home to ole 
missus.” 

Here Daddy Dave broke down, could say nothing 
more, and easing himself down upon the root of the 
tree by the side of the soldier, sobbed like a child. 
The wounded man, strengthening himself against 
the tree, replied to the old man’s question : 

“ Well, uncle, that regiment had a hard time to- 
day ; the brigade was near us ; they had eleven 
color-men killed right here, and the last I saw of 
them they were charging that battery up on the hill 
there,” pointing with his finger, with the colors 
flying, and you had better go in that direction.” 

Eager to know the worst. Daddy Dave pulled 
himself up from the tree-trunk, put the flask into 
his pocket, and, followed by Joe, again undertook 
the search. It was now quite dark. Not many 
steps were taken by these faithful negroes before 
they began to stumble over the bodies of the 


^^TILL DEATH DO US PART.” 47 

wounded and slain in that memorable charge up 
the hill. The shadows cast bj the trees, as well as 
the dimness of his old eyes, prevented Daddy Dave 
from recognizing many of the upturned faces which 
were familiar to him at home. Having put a box 
of matches in Joe’s pocket just before they left the 
camp, he called to the young fellow to strike one. 
He took it and held it down among the faces until 
it burned out ; then another match, and another, 
till the box was almost consumed, and saying after 
each scrutiny, Tank God, nun ob mi chillun 
yet !” 

The top of the hill was near, and the floating flag 
formed a silhouette against the western sky, still 
painted in rosy light. This attracted the attention 
of Joe, who exclaimed : 

‘‘ Dis mus’ be de plase de rhan tole ’bout ; he 
say it a hi’ hill, an’ de flag is dar.” 

Sho ’nuff, son, dat’s de plase,” said Daddy 
Dave. They climbed a few steps farther, reaching 
the battery, and looking down from it saw a trench. 
The old man stood still, looked into its darkness, 
was startled, and easing himself slowly down into 
its unknown depth, called for a fresh match. His 
foot, on finding the bottom of the trench, touched 
something. Striking the match with trembling 
fingers, he said, with bated breath, O God, dis 
mout be wun ob de boys !” The match was held 
above the face of the body that his foot had 
touched ; the suspense was ended ; it was Johnny. 

His hat had fallen from his head as he fell, and 
the beautiful boy lay there with the brown hair 


48 


DADDY DAVE. 


curling on liis temples, and his eyes closed as in 
sleep. There was not a drop of blood to be seen 
except upon the cuff of his right sleeve, which was 
hidden under the unbuttoned coat. Deep groans 
from out the old man’s heart rent the evening air 
as he loosed the vest and shirt and ran his hand 
inside over the left breast, to see if there was not 
some life yet. Then taking each hand and feeling 
first one wrist and then the other to detect a slight 
pulsation, he found all still and cold ; drawing 
out his fiask of brandy from his pocket, and feeling 
this to be the last effort to bring the life-blood back 
into his boy, he tenderly lifted the dear young head 
with his left hand, and placing with his right hand 
the brandy to the cold, purple lips, he leaned his 
liead down, with his ear close to the marble face, 
that he might hear the faintest sound to betoken a 
spark of life. After trying again and again to 
force the liquid into the young master’s lips, he 
shook his liead, laid the body again to its rest on 
the ground, and while securing the fiask and putting 
it back in his pocket, he said to himself, ’Tain’t 
no use nohow; he’s dun gone to his par.” Then 
feeling for his handkerchief, the old man took it 
and wiped away the dew, as well as the burning tears 
that fell from his old eyes upon the cold, pale face 
below. Oh, Johnny, Johnny, yo’ po’ mar dat’s 
home, an’ de udder boys, dey will brake dey h’arts 
when dey no you is kill ; de chile dat I raze an’ 
whut yo’ par tell me to keep for him. I kan’t gib 
you up nohow ; you look too nat’ul dere, wid yo’ 
curly har, an' yo’ red cheeks.” 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


49 


C( 


>> 


This monotone of grief was interrupted by Joe’s 
announcement that there were no more matches in 
the box. Then the two friends sat quiet with the 
dead under the stars, with naught to break the still- 
ness in the trench excepting the flapping of the flag 
in the evening air, which had been planted by 
the right hand, so cold and stiff, and now resting 
in the warm, loving palm of the old negro man. 
After a while Daddy Dave roused himself and said : 

“Joe, dis ting won’t do ; dis chile not gwine to 
be berry by de men on de fele, dat’s sho, ’cos 1 
gWine to carry him to his mar, as sho as mi name is 
Dave, an’ got a drop ob strent lef’ in me. Joe, 
yu go back to de camp, an’ go in Johnny’s tent, 
no” — and then with a sob that prevented his speak- 
ing for a moment — “ well, yu foch me dat bes’ 
blanket an’ his ’napsack, jes’ as he lef’ dem, an’ 
hurry an’ cum back. Tell Mose, whut bTongs to 
Cap’n Nelson’s mess, to look atter all our tings till 
James gits back, ’cos yu is gwine wid me till we 
cum up wid de rale-rode, an’ den yu will be dar to 
^tend to James. 1 spec de wagin-train gwine move 
atter de army any way to-morrow. Mek base, son. ” 

Joe’s retreating steps were hardly lost in the dis- 
tance when Daddy Dave’s sad reverie was broken 
by the appearance of some one who took his steps 
cautiously, and who let himself down into the 
trench as one who had a right to something held in 
its darkness. The old man knew it was a soldier, 
and putting his great sheltering arm over the young 
master as if to protect him, he called, “ Who’s 
dat ?” 


50 


DADDY DAVE. 


It was James. lie recognized Daddy Dave’s 
voice and said ; 

‘‘lam so glad yon are here, Daddy Dave, for I 
was afraid the men would set about burying the 
dead before I could get here, and I could not leave 
ranks till the army halted, and have gotten here as 
soon as I could. I cannot remain with you long, 
for 1 must be back in camp before daylight.” 

Stooping down in the dark and feeling for the 
dear face, so cold and still, he kissed it again and 
again, saying, half to himself : 

“ Dear John, you were better lit than I to go, 
and that’s the reason God took you.” 

“ Mo’s do reason, den, he mout a stayed in dis 
wicked world ; dat owil [owl] tole me las’ nite at 
de pra’r-meetin’ whut wus a-cumin’, an’ de moist 
I’m tinkiu’ ’bout now is ole missus. Miss Bessie, 
an’ de gurls. I lef’ Miss Bessie’s magarrytipe in de 
pocket whar he put it, an’ de ring on dis finger, 
whut I holdin’ in mi han’, an’ when we git home 
dey kin see dem for dey selves.” 

“ Daddy Dave, what are your plans about taking 
him home ? The wires are all down, and 1 do not 
think you can telegraph to mother until you get to 
Bichmond. The rail road- track is torn up much of 
the way, and I think you have great trouble ahead 
of you. Should you come up with the wires, be 
sure to send mother a despatch that you are on the 
way home with John’s body, and that I am safe, 
and Henry, too. I saw a man from his brigade 
about an hour ago, and he told me Henry >vas in 
the battle and came out all nVlit.” 

O 


TILL DEATH DO US PART.” 


51 




De Lord bo praised for dis ! Sho’ly ole missus 
got ’nuS to kill her now, widout car’ird mo’ bad 
news. I jes’ now sen’ Joe back to de camp for de 
tings dat’s needful, an’ we will car'y po’ Johnny to 

W ’fo’ day brakes ; it’s ’bout fo’teen mile, an’ 

den we’ll git a wagin an’ tek him in dat till we 
ketch up wid de trane. You no I bin at dis bizness 
afo’ when I fetch yo’ par home, atter he die at de 
White Sulphur Springs in Yirginny — jes’ ate year 
ago now.” 

But what will you do about money, Daddy 
Dave ? You will have great expense before you 
get home.” 

‘‘ 1 gwine rite to Colonel B in W , whut 

no’d yo’ par so well, an’ tell him to let me hab de 
money dat’s needful for de ’mergency, an’ when 
I ’rives at home at Greymoss, he will hab whut’s 
his own, an’ mo’ too.” 

Just then Joe came up with all the articles sent 
for to be used in conveying the body of the captain 
to his home. He handed the knapsack to Daddy 
Dave, and he discovered upon opening it the half- 
burned candle which the young master had held in 
his hand the night before to read the little Testa- 
ment at the prayer-meeting. James found a stray 
match in his pocket, with which he lighted the 
candle and gave it to Joe to hold. The two broken- 
hearted men, the master and the old slave, bowed 
in a common grief over the dead, and wet the dear 
young face afresh with their tears. They sat in 
silence for some time, each one awed in the pres- 
ence of death, thinking, doubtless, how easy it was 


52 


DADDY DAVE. 


for a good man to go out of life, to forsake all 
here for a more enduring inheritance. And how 
hard it would be for those whose onlj rest is here^ 
and all beyond the dark river a mystery ! Daddy 
Dave’s soliloquy fell upon the stillness ; still hold- 
ing the cold hand in his warm one, and parting the 
matted curls from the temples with the other with 
the tenderness of a woman, he said : 

Dem cussed Britishers ! Ef I had mi way de 
hole set ob dem wuld be lyin’ rite hyar in dis 
trench, an’ dis lubly boy gone home to his mar. 
De hole army ob dem not wort dis boy’s life ; but 
it’s no use settin’ hyar an’ talkin’, for Johnny is 
ded an’ kan’t be no dedder.” 

Looking up to the stars as if to find the time of 
the night, James said : 

“ Daddy Dave, 1 must be going now ; must be 
with the company at daybreak, and as our roads do 
not go the same way, I must be off. Let me hear 
all about it when you get home. Don’t let mother 
grieve too much ; try to comfort her, and don’t 
you come back to the army ; you are getting old 
now, and cannot stand the winter. Y on know how 
you suffered with rheumatism last winter. I don’t 
see what we are to do without you in camp, but 
mother will need you more than ever on the planta- 
tion now, since Uncle Isaac is dead.” 

At this moment Joe opened his mouth for the 
first time, and said : 

“Why, Mars’ James, I kin do all de tings fo’ 
yu, habin’ ’sperience wid Daddy Dave mo’ dan a 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


53 


tt 


?> 


yeer ; de ole man better stay at home an’ miss his- 
sef, kase ob de rumatiz.” 

‘‘You are all right,” said the young master, ap- 
preciating the ofPended dignity of the young negro. 
“ 1 am not afraid to trust you, Joe. You will be 
in camp with me to-morrow night and turning 
to the old man, James continued, “ Tell old Aunt 
Binky that Joe’s a good boy, and I will take good 
care of him.” 

James then knelt down and kissed the marble 
face, first one cheek, then the other, saying : 

“ This is for mother, this for Bessie ; good-by, 
my brother, till we meet again, and God knows 
how soon !” 

This said, lie vanished into the darkness. 

The preparations for taking the young soldier’s 
body home were made. The new blanket was un- 
folded and its strength was tested and attached to 
two rails which Joe had found in the dehris of an 
old fence close by ; the twine cord which Daddy 
Dave always carried in' his deep pockets in “ kase 
ob ’mergency” was brought out, and the blanket 
made sure between the two rails. A rude sort of 
litter was in this manner constructed and placed 
upon the ground above the trench. Then com- 
posing the limbs of the dead, and tying the face 
with a piece of linen bandage, the two men lifted 
the precious body from the trench where it had 
fallen, placed it in the blanket, and laid the hat 
over the quiet eyes — asleep in death. This much 
accomplished, the old man took the master’s knap- 


54 


DADDY DAVE. 


sack, Strapped it over his own shoulders, uttering 
the words between his groans, “ Mi po’ chile, ncii 
po’ Johnny.” 

During these preparations the candle had nearly 
burned away. It had been fastened between two 
pieces of wood and stuck in the fresh earth of the 
new-made trench. It was blown out by the old 
man as he reached down and took it from its place, 
saying to himself, I’ll tek dis to his mar an’ she’ll 
cry ober it, sho ’nulf.” Then telling Joe to take 
hold of the two rails at the feet of the body, he 
lifted those at the head, and placing them on their 
shoulders the long, lonely walk began. The old 
man looked back into the trench, then up into the 
stars, then at the flag, as if in appeal to watch over 
the slumbering dead left behind him, and said : 

Dose po’ boys dat’s lyin’ dar, if 1 jes’ had fo’ 
legs an’ fo’ mo’ ban’s, mo’ ob yu would go home 
to yo’ mars dis bery nite ; but de Lord kin tek car 
ob yu. lie no’s jes’ whar He lef’ yu.” 

Carrying the master’s body home was a great 
undertaking for these two negroes in a strange 
country, and a burden to bear almost as heavy as 
their hearts. The old man was a mry old man, and 
with one limb much drawn with rheumatism. But 
his faith was strong, and his heart knew no failing 
till home was gained. This melancholy procession 
of two had rested many times in the march of the 
first five miles, and during the last stopping they 
were overtaken by an ambulance. The day was 
now dawning ; the purple and gold in the east 
gladdened the hearts of the weary travellers, and 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


55 


(C 




its light revealed the nature of their burden to the 
driver. Reining in his horse, and seeing this ver?/ 
old negro in the lead, the driver called out to 
them : 

‘‘ iSlide that body in here ; there’s room for one 
more, and I’ll give you a lift, old man, especially 
as the river is just ahead and the bridge burned 
away. We’ve got to ford the stream ; and if you 
have fetched that body all the way from the field 
between them two rails, you must be about worn 
oul.” 

The blanket was unfastened and folded around 
the body, which was carefully placed in the ambu- 
lance beside ‘‘somebody’s darling.” The twine 
was wound up and put in the old deep pocket, and 
the rails that had lent such aid were left on the 
roadside. 

“ Come, get up here by me, and I’ll make room 
for that young fellow till we get across the river ; 
then he’ll have to walk, for my load is pretty heavy 
now for this nag ; she’s livin’ on mighty light 
rations these days.” 

The ambulance started on its way. After a short 
conversation it was found that the driver and his 
companions were bound for the same place, a town 
eight miles farther on. The two bodies first in the 
ambulance were brothers, killed in the fight the day 
before, and their bodies were to be buried in the 

cemetery in W till the father and mother in 

the far South could arrange for their transportation 
home. 

It was always easy for Daddy Dave to give his 


56 


DADDY DAYE. 


family history, which proved very interesting to 
his new-made friend. His plans for the sorrowful 
journey were given in detail, and the driver offered 
to take the old man and his precious charge straight 
to Colonel — ’s and introduce him, to make 
matters easy. To this last proposition Daddy Dave 
said : 

Am bery much ’bleeged to yu, sar, fo’ yo’ 

’tension, but Colonel B no me like a book ; 

he ’members de ole White Sulphur da’s when he 
use to sot wid his foot on de baluster ob our cottige 
torkin’ polytics wid ole marster. He no me, sar, 
an’ de hole generashun ob mi people, an’ Colonel 

B ’ll take it an’ honor to do enyting for de 

name. An’ den de ’slemnity ob de ’kashun, too — 
all I got to do is to tell who I is.” 

According to a promise made before entering the 
town, the driver stopped the ambulance near the 
woods on the side of the road, for Daddy Dave to 

fix himself up” before his meeting with Colonel 
B-^. 

One might have supposed the journey done and 
the errand accomplished to see the driver sitting on 
the wagon so amused and interested in the old 
negro’s toilette. There was no recollection of war 
or its sad details on the young man’s face as he sat 
there playing with the whip and eying every move- 
ment of Uncle Dave. Joe, glad of a rest, sat on a 
stump near the wagon, with a downcast, sad look 
upon his face ; whether it was of grief for the one 
who could never come back, or a longing for his 
home and mother, we cannot say. Daddy Dave re- 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


57 


(( 


ft 


tired to the root of a large tree, laid aside liis cap, 
and hung his coat to a branch of the tree, and began 
a vigorous search through his many pockets for the 
Jim Crow.” This was found, and the tug of 
war began. First with the cotton string that tied 
the ends of his specs, and which had been lost to 
sight for many r day in the woolly mass at the back 
of his head. After many tugs and pulls the strings 
were found and disengaged from their mooring, the 
specs taken down and laid upon the ground. The 
“ Jim Crow” was knocked several times, teeth 
downward, against the root upon which he was 
sitting, and being assured of its freedom from all 
impurities, it was applied laboriously to its one pur- 
pose. After a time this perseverance and the dex- 
terous handling of this implement in the art of hair- 
dressing was reAvarded, when he ran his fingers 
through his wool, teasing and piling it up on the 
top of his head, and exclaimed, Dat’ll do.” The 
specs were agahi placed upon his forehead, and the 
cotton string, the same one that Aunt Sibby tied 
the morning he left home, sank into its old hiding- 
place. It was not the churn” this time that he 
adjusted to his head, but a smoking-cap, much the 
worse for wear, which some fair hand had bestowed 
upon James. It was made of black velvet, and be- 
dizzened with gilt braid, and a very elaborate tassel 
of the same suspended from its apex. Taking his 
swallow-tail ” down from the tree, he dived into 
the depths of those wonderful pockets, and brought 
out the inevitable stock and standing collar ! The 
latter had been subjected to the clear-starching and 


58 


DADDY DAVE. 


ironing of tlie camp, and was neither as much like 
a sword-blade in stiffness nor a snowflake in color 
as when it came from the hands of Aunt Sibbj. 
The cap was donned and a complaisant look spread 
over his countenance till he looked down upon his 
worn and travel-stained shoes. Something had to 
be done. He called out : 

Joe, cum hyar, son. Fotch me sum ob de 
biggest lebes off dat tree, an’ wdpe de dus’ off mi 
shoes.” 

This was done ; then tearing off a piece of the 
bandage cloth, which was put away in his pocket, 
and spitting upon it, he gave his shoes a powerful 
rubbing, and called again upon his man Friday to 
repeat the last-named ])erformance, as he had a 
fresh chaw” in his mouth. Joe pronounced the 
toilette perfect, and Daddy Dave then advanced to 
the ambulance and got up to the seat, saying : 

I alwais wus use to lookin’ ’spectable, an’ I 

want Colonel B to no dat ole Dave is not ’mor- 

’lized by de war, but keeps up all de wais ob de 
aristoc’acy till de present time.” 

After getting settled in his seat by the driver, he 
looked back into the ambulance, laid his hand ten- 
derly upon the hidden contents of the blanket, and 
said, as if in apology for his apparent lightness, 
Po’ Johnny, yu’ll soon git home to yo’ mar.” 

In a short time they had gained the residence of 

Colonel B , and the wagon stood in front of the 

gate. Daddy Dave dismounted, went up the walk 
to the door, rung the bell, and was answered by 
Colonel B himself, who was then at home on 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


59 






furlough, with his arm in a sling, from a wound re- 
ceived in Sunday's fight. Daddy Dave introduced 
himself in the manner before mentioned. His 
errand was explained, and in a few moments he, 
with the aid of a man-servant from within, was 
bearing the body, still wrapped in the blanket, into 
the house. 

Colonel B stood on the piazza and superin- 

tended this mournful duty. On his face was a 
‘ mingled look of pity and amusement — indeed, a 
} serio-comic expression. He thought of the sadness 
of the coming of the body of this young soldier, 

I the son of his old friend of better days. Then this 
! remarkable specimen of the human family, his in- 
! troduction, his appearance, his uniform — in fact, 

! the toict enserrible furnished a picture that morning 
I that the colonel often described in after j^ears. 

j Mrs. B came into the parlor where the body 

of the young soldier lay upon the sofa, and with a 
I woman’s and a mother’s heart and hand planned 
i every minutiae connected with this sad occasion in 
I the tenderest, most graceful manner. Joe was 
given a hearty breakfast, while Uncle Dave and 
I Colonel B went into the town to send the tele- 
gram to Mrs. W and look for some kind of 

casket in which to ship the body home. Their first 
errand was quickly executed, and the sad tidings 
on the way to ole missus” before many moments 
elapsed. The other, the more difficult one, was next 

undertaken. Colonel B ’s appearing on the 

street with this remarkable individual at his side 
attracted the attention of all beholders, consisting 


60 


DADDY DAVE. 


mainly of gray-haired sires, small boys, and darkies, 
who were at every corner to get the news of the 
preceding day’s battle. One of these gray-haired 
men approached the colonel wdth the question : 

Have you heard whether Longstreet’s division 
was in the fight ? I have two nephews from the , | 
far South, and have not heard from them yet.” 

‘‘ Yes, they were in the battle, and in the hottest^ 
part. This old man here, Uncle Dave, has just i 
brought the body of his young master to m^^ house 

he was a captain in the Brigade of that divi-l | 

sion. We are trying to find a suitable coffin to" i 
send the body home ; do you know if there is any 
such thing to be found in town ? Even a box, if j 
we can get nothing else, or lumber to make a] 
coffin. ’ ’ • 

The old gentleman’s face grew interested, and he 
replied by asking : 

“Was the captain a large man ?” 

Colonel B looked at Uncle Dave for an an- 

swer, and received the following : 

“ No, sar ; not so bery big, but de puttiest yung>^ 
hoy yu eber see, jes’ twenty years old, an’ his face | 
like a gurl ; de blessedest boy dat eber wus in dis 
wurl.” 

“Well, come with me,” said the gentleman, : 
“and I will take you to a house in Jones Street ' 
where there is a real fine casket for sale. It was' 
sent up from Kichmond for Colonel Johnston, who ' 
died in the hospital here, and the casket was too ! 
small in every way.- I think you may get it by ' 
paying a very good price for it.” 


TILL DEATH DO US PART* 


61 




ff 


‘‘ De price is niittin’, sar, to dis fambl j,” placing 
his hand upon his breast, an’ ole missus got plenty 
ob Ian’ an’ niggers an’ stock an’ cotton, an’ she’s 

good for de money. Colonel B no’s mi people 

is ’sponsible people, dey is, sar.” 

The three men then proceeded to the warehouse, 
saw the casket, found its proportions ample for 
their purpose, and iu a half hour it was in Colonel 

B ’s parlor resting upon two chairs under the 

open window, and the fair young boy placed in it. 
The old man adjusted the stiffened limbs, brushed 
away the curls from the marble brow, and turning 

to Mrs. B , who stood near weeping over this 

pitiful scene, said : 

‘‘ Missus, will yu, plese, mam, git de sissere, 
an’ tek off a lock ob har from behine, whar it 
won’t sho — one fur ole missus, an’ one fur Miss 
Bessie, de yung lady whut he wus gwine to marry 
when de war wus ober ?” 

This being done. Daddy Dave made another re- 
quest. 

‘‘ Missus, will yu, plese, mam, put a few flowers 
in his bres, an’ a posy in his han’, fur his mar to 
see when she look at him. It will be nat’l like.” 

During the execution of these last sad oflices to 
the dead. Colonel B — — had been walking up and 
down through the parlor, with his eyes brimming 
over, watching the old man’s thoughtful care of 
both the ones at home and the one beside him, and 
realizing afresh, as he had done hundreds of times 
before, the sincerity of that affection between 
master and slave. He longed for those who 


62 


DADDY DAVE. 


doubted this fact to be present at tins scene, and 
witness for themselves the love and faith which can 
only be broken in death ! 

When the old man had finished the arrangement 
of the fiowers and other small details before closing 
the casket, there seemed to be one thing more of 
importance that must not be omitted, and advancing 
toward the gentleman, he said : 

“Colonel, I hab a bery important reques’ to 
mek. I s’pose dar is no preacher roun’ dis plase 
now, but dis kiver,” pointing to the lid of the 
casket, which was placed against the wall, “ kan’t 
go on dat box widout a word ob pra’r. I ain’t no ' 
Chrislmn, but fo’ de sake ob he an’ his mar, we s 
mus’ hab sum ’ligious exercise.” i 

Colonel B was a Christian gentleman and an ^ 

office-bearer in the church in W , and most 

willingly complied with the old man’s wish. Joe 
was called in, and there around the casket knelt the 
four — two of them with white faces, two of them 
with black — to hear the blessing of comfort and 
peace asked for the mother and sisters in their far- 
away home, safety and health for the brothers now 
in the field, and a speedy, safe journey to Daddy 
Dave and his precious burden. Then with choking 
emotion the blessing of life was asked for his own 
two sons, who might be that very hour in the perils 
of the field. The prayer was ended, and at a signal 
from Daddy Dave Joe bade good-by to the gentle- 
man and lady, and thanked them for their kindness. 
He then hung over the casket, smoothed the brow 
of the young master with his hard, horny hand, 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


63 


if 


if 


brushed the flowing tears from his own eyes, and 
hurried away from the house to the camp. The 
wagon borrowed from the hospital that brought the 
casket to the house was at the gate still, waiting to 
receive it again, and when all was ready it moved 
off to the depot, followed by the cortege of two — 
Colonel B and Daddy Dave. 

Fortunately for the old man and his errand, a 
box-car had been sent up from Richmond the night 
before tilled with hospital stores, as many of the 
wounded were sent to this place. The car returned 

to-day, and through the entreaties of Colonel B 

the body and its protector were carried to Rich- 
mond. It arrived there that evening, and made 
immediate connection with the south-bound train, 
which as yet had not been destroyed. 

On the following afternoon Daddy Dave was at 
the station with his precious charge. There had 
been changes at home as well as in the army. In- 
stead of Uncle Isaac meeting the train his place was 
filled by Uncle Jacob, and the meeting between the 
old men was deeply affecting. The silent shake of 
those hands and the look of those tear-dimmed eyes 
were more eloquent than words ! 

The sun was hiding his face behind the hedges, 
as if in sympathy with the mournful occasion, when 
the wagon bearing the body of the young master 
turned into the long avenue at Greymoss. It was 
followed by the negroes from two plantations, who 
had been awaiting Daddy Dave’s arrival. The old 
men and women walked next the wagon, and after 
them the women with the babes in their arms and 


64 


DADDY DAVE. 


cliildren around their skirts, all in silent grief, 
through the great white gate up to the steps, and 
there they halted. Aunt Sibby and Aunt Betty 
opened the doors, having placed the rests for the 
casket under the arch of the great wide hall. In 
all the fireplaces large knots of pine-wood were 
burning to purify the air, and everything arranged 
by these two thoughtful women to soothe the mis- 
tress in her grief. Daddy Dave superintended the 
moving of the body, by four strong plantation men, 
to its resting-place in the hall. The lid was re- 
moved, and all told to come in and look upon the 
dear young master. Daddy Dave, of course, stood 
at the head ; they came in one by one, walked 
around, looked, and passed out. The grief of those 
black faces was silent, but true, and every sob came 
from a heart full of love to the form so still and cold. 

It was far into the night when Aunt Sibby went 
into her mistress’s room and told her the house was 
quiet and the people had gone to their homes. A 
chair had been placed for her at the head of the 

casket, and very soon Mrs. W , Miss Bessie, 

and the girls came into the hall and w^ere left alone 
in their grief. 

It is a custom in the South for a few friends to 
come together to watch around the dead the short 
time allowed for the body to remain unburied — not 
more than twenty-four hours, except under peculiar 
circumstances. Several young ladies and two 
soldiers, who were at home with their wounds, 
offered themselves for this melancholy attention ; 
but Daddy Dave declined their kindness, as he and 


‘^TILL DEATH DO US PART.” 65 

Uncle Jacob had determined to sleep beside the 
casket, and, if necessary, watch the dead. Conse- 
quently at bedtime the lights were put out and the 
doors closed, and on each side of the body, with a 
folded blanket under his head, was Daddy Dave 
and Uncle Jacob. During the night, as the weary 
hours passed slowly away, the mistress went into 
the library, which opened into the hall, and rested 
upon the sofa, feeling it would be a comfort to be 
near the body of her boy for the short time it 
would be in her keeping. A low monotone of con- 
versation was going on between the old men. 
Daddy Dave was giving a detailed account of all 
that had happened in the past week, feeling assured 
that all he said and did would be rehearsed on both 
plantations by Uncle Jacob, and his deeds of valor 
and devotion would descend to posterity. Uncle 
Jacob, in his turn, related the incidents concerning 
the death and burial of Uncle Isaac; how ‘^ole 
missus” came each day with the little book and read 
and prayed, and how Mr. Land, the chaplain of 
the two plantations, stayed with him and saw him 
go to glory ; how they buried the old man at mid- 
night with two hundred torches, and how they sung 
‘‘ Swing low, sweet chariot” and ‘‘ I’m done with 
the trouble of the world ” all the way from Uncle 
Isaac’s house to the graveyard ! It would be ex- 
ceedingly undignified for Daddy Dave to show sur- 
prise at anything that was told him, however start- 
ling, and during this prolonged recital his highest 
approbation, as well as his greatest amazement, 
was ex2:)ressed in his old way, “ Dat’sso, brudder.” 


66 


DADDY DAVE. 


The next day at Grey moss was dark and dreary ; 
there was no sunlight to give cheer; the clouds sent 
down showers of rain in token of sympathy with 
the broken hearts and tearful faces on the old 
plantations that funeral morning. The ministers 
were all in the army, and even the chaplain on the 
plantations had but a few weeks before volunteered 
in the Army of the Potomac ; so there could be no 
religious service on this occasion. Daddy Dave’s 
sense of propriety was much shocked at the thought 
of this omission, and he resolved in his own mind to 
have other arrangements ; so before it was light he 
had mounted the old mare and had gone into town 
to see the family physician, a very old man, to ask 
him to come to the home, and ef yu kan’t pray, 
jes’ read a few verses from de Scripters, to ease ole 
missus’s h’art, an’ bro Jacob kin do de res’, now 
dat bro Isaac gon’ to de better Ian’.” 

It was an early hour in the morning. Mrs. 
W and the girls stood at the head of the re- 

mains while the doctor read the fifteenth chapter of 
Corinthians, after which the casket was closed. 
There was a pause : the four men waited to bear 
it away, when Daddy Dave, with great impressive- 
ness, drew from his breast a Confederate fiag made 
of the silk dresses of the older sisters in the 
family, unfolded it, and laid it across the casket, 
saying : 

‘‘ He fo’t fur dis, an’ it shall go wid him to de 
las’.” 

Uncle Jacob drove the carriage, and Daddy Dave 
took his seat in the wagon which carried the body. 


‘^TILL DEATH DO US PART.’* 67 

After two miles they gained the cemetery, followed 
by an army of black faces, big and little, old and 
young, weeping and moaning as they went. Surely 
this cemetery is one of the most touching and 
beautiful spots in which to take the long sleep — the 
sleep that knows no waking. The little church, 
built of red brick and its blinds painted green, and 
four large pillars in front covered with plaster, 
stands upon a knoll. In front and at its sides are 
magnificent live-oaks covered with gray moss that 
sweeps the ground. At the back of the little 
church is the burial-ground, inclosed by a fence of 
the purest whiteness, where the immaculate grave- 
stones refiect the sunlight ; these, to my childish 
mind, were associated with the spotless robes of the 
blest ! Here the rich and the poor lay side by side, 
and a stone of the same pattern and quality marks 
alike the resting-place of each. 'The walks in the 
beautiful spot are divided by mock-oranges, ever 
green and beautiful, on whose branches the birds 
come at all seasons and sing their lullaby to those 
who rest so peacefully below them. The knoll 
upon which this dear old church stands slopes away 
into a stream a few hundred feet beyond, where the 
country road passes, where in summer clouds of 
dust rise from the horses’ feet, but after the autumn 
rains the water is higher than the small wheel of 
the carriage. The reflections of light and shadow 
in this little stream, the Church Branch,” none 
can forget. The water is still ; almost a twilight 
is formed by the matted branches of oak, cypress, 
magnolia, sweet-bay, with tangled vines of jas- 


68 


DADDY DATE. 


mine and woodbine. Now and then the sun peeps 
through and makes fantastic pictures upon the quiet 
surface, with a foreground of alligators and turtles 
sunning themselves. They are too listless to fear 
the beautiful white crane that stalks majestically 
through the water seeking its prey among the 
smaller creatures, or the water-moccason, not quite 
so venturesome as its neighbor, stretching its length 
upon a rail or piece of broken wood in the middle 
of the stream. This little bit of life never dis- 
turbed those who rested on the hill ; they still sleep 
the sleep of the just. This we do not find recorded 
in stone, for the same uniformity prevails with the 
epitaph as with the marble. God knows it all, and 
after our new-made grave is closed we will leave 
them to His care. 

The casket was lifted out of the wagon and placed 

above the open grave. Mrs. W , the girls, and 

the doctor stood at the head, and around it were 
the negroes. All were silent ; every hat was off 
when Daddy Dave stepped to the front and said : 

‘‘ Bro Jacob, will you. lead us in pra’r 

The old man, standing near the mistress accord- 
ing to Daddy Dave’s previous arrangement, with 
great humility raised his old hands and closed his 
eyes. These words came right out of the bottom 
of his heart : 

‘‘ Our Farder in hebben, we, Dy chillun, is in 
grate trubble dis day ; dese is h’art-rendin’ times. 
De yung marster dat we raze an’ dat we lub so well 
is jes’ ’bout to be put onder de clay, an’ we got 
nowhar to tun our weepin’ eyes but to de Lord. 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


69 


(( 




We no de Farder kin do nuttin’ tohert His chillnn, 
an’ we feel dis grate stroke is fom Dj lian’ an’ 
ment in lub ; bntit am bery bard, an’ we mus’ hab 
13 j blessin’. Fus’, gib de shower ob Dj grace to 
ole missus, for de promis is to de widder an’ de 
orfin ; let her see by de eye ob fate her boy a- 
stanin’ in de purly gate a-beckinin’ fo’ her to jine 
him in de meny manshuns. Doan let her git dis- 
CLirrige or de h’art git trubble, fo’ it won’t be long. 
Bless dem chillim dat’s stanin’ roun’ dis grabe, 
wid a warnin’ to prepar to mete dey God. Bless 
de boys dat’s in danger dis day — all tree ob dem, 
whareber dey is. Dy eye is rite dar to see dem an’ 
Dy ban’ to save dem. Let dem follow Johnny’s 
track an’ be solgers ob de cross, an’ bless all de 
ciimpny he lef’, an’ may dey trus’ in God. An’ 
now, deer Marster in hebben, all dese black peeple 
mus’ hab sum ob de shower ; open de winder an’ 
let ’em fall. Prepar de ole totterin’ ones fo’ de 
crossin’ ob de riber ; sum dat’s in Dy presens ain’t 
reddy, an’ bin a long time ’busin’ de meens too 
much. Bless de middle-age peeple, an’ help ’em 
to tro’ way de wurl an’ tek de yoke an’ burdin, 
seekin’ fo’ Dy kingdom. Bless all dese leetle nig- 
gers, an’ when de ole peeple pass away ober Jur- 
din, dey kin tek de plase. An’ now, ole Marster 
in hebben, let us all, leetle an’ big, mete roun’ de 
grate white trone, marster and missus, dey chillun 
an’ our chillun, an’ when Gabrul bio’ de trumpet, 
we all rise an’ rane togedder, singin’ de song ob 
Moses an’ de Lam’, an’ all dis an’ mo’ too we ax, 
fur Chrise Jesus’ sake. Amen.” 


70 


DADDY DAVE. 


All was still. Daddy Dave threw in the first 
shovel of earth, which action was followed by the 
stronger men till the grave was filled. Then the 
old man shaped the mound and fixed the fiower- 
pieces upon it which had been sent by friends from 
town. All turned to leave, and after helping ‘‘ ole 
missus” in the carriage. Daddy Dave said : 

“ Bro Jacob, you dribe de wagin home ; I po’- 
fo’m de las’ duty to mi yung marster, an’ now I 
gwine ter tek car’ ob his mar.” 

He climbed to the box^and drove back to the 
lonely home, followed by the long procession of 
mourners. 

Days passed after the funeral, and nothing was 
said by the mistress or Daddy Dave in regard to his 
return to Virginia ; she feeling it a help and sup- 
port to have him at home, and he willing to abide 
in its comfort with his aches and infirmities. The 
long, anxious journey, with its great responsibility, 
proved too much for his strength, and although 
there was an apparent taking up of the old duties, 
we could all realize the change that the year had 
wrought in him. Letters came regularly from the 
young masters in the army insisting upon the old 
man’s remaining at home for the winter, to rest his 
poor old tired body and weary heart. He must 
stay with mother and help her in the management 
of the plantations. These letters were all read to 
him on account of a sort of proprietorship which 
he felt, not only in the boys, but in the army entire 
— from General Lee down to the humblest private 
in the ranks. Many times in those long, weary 


^^TILL DEATH DO US PART.” 71 

months of separation and suspense at Greymoss, 
when the papers were read to him, he would ex- 
press a confidence that if he had only been there 
the line of march would have been a different one, 
and the battle fought in some other place than 
where it actually occurred. He was pleased and 
flattered to think he was necessary to the manage- 
ment at home, and a sense of great importance rec- 
onciled him to the old life. 

Weeks vanished into months in the routine of 
plantation duty. It soon came time to send up to 
Conference for a chaplain for the two places, and 
as Uncle Isaac was gone, the duty devolved upon 
Uncle Jacob and Uncle John, as Daddy Dave was 
‘‘no Christian, and could not attend to the spiritual 
affairs of the places.” 

In a week’s time the old men returned from the 

town of C , where the Conference met, with 

the information that Mr. Martin was coming to 
them ; he was a very old man, but all the young 
ministers had gone into service. In the old South 
most of the negroes were either Methodists or 
Baptists, as Daddy Peter once said in explanation 
of the fact, that “ niggers hab to be in a chuch 
whar dey kin hab bod’ly exercise !” 

Each month the ravages of war were greater than 
the last. Money was becoming daily of less value, 
and the people consequently lived by the barter of 
home productions. More corn and potatoes were 
raised and less cotton, for the home as well as army 
consumption. There was no market for the last- 
named commodity, and its shipment to Liverpool, 


72 


DADDY DAVE. 


wliicli was tried in many instances, involved great 
• risk and mucli expense. Sheep, hogs, and cows were 
raised for the army ; the wool was woven into cloth 
on the plantations, and the hides of the cows tanned 
and made into boots and shoes for the soldiers, 
while the hogs’ liides were made into shoes for the 
negroes. The life at Grey moss was a busy one to 
all, but especially to Daddy Dave in the way of over- 
seeing all these various departments of labor. He 
was never idle, from early in the morning till late at 
night, but ever carried with him that great dignity 
and self-respect that demanded a deference from all 
the black faces around him. The negroes were 
kind and affectionate to the mistress, and tried, in 
their faithful service, to soothe and comfort her 
each in his own peculiar way. 

It was now the beginning of ’65. The Confed- 
eracy had been rent in twain. The railroads were 
torn up, the bridges burned, the telegraph wires 
cut, and a more dismal outlook was never before 
imagined by the people in the South. Sherman 
had marched through the entire State of Georgia, 
burning and plundering as he passed. Savannah 
had fallen, and his army was resting before the un- 
gloved sacking of South Carolina would begin. In 
front of him came the torch, and behind him fol- 
lowed famine and pestilence. Mrs. W had ex- 

plained to all the negroes just what the coming of 
the army meant to them — offers of freedom and 
plenty if they would forsake their homes, or the 
alternative of starving if they remained true to 
their mistress and loyal to their home. She im- 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


73 


<( 


J > 


pressed upon them the fact of their being free to 
do as they pleased — to go or stay. She promised to 
share with those who remained her scanty store. 
The experience of the Georgia people came ahead 
of the invading army, which proved there would be 
nothing left for her to share. The army was now 
within a few hours’ march of this beautiful home, 
which, being in a most prosperous section of country, 
offered many allurements to an army whose purpose 
was not to fight, but to plunder and destroy. They 
met with no resistance ; a score or two of women 
and children with white faces, and hundreds, yea, 
thousands, of black oaes were the foes to dispute 
the way. The old negroes on the places were wild 
with terror over the coming of the army, while the 
younger ones were filled with curiosity and a desire 
for excitement. Keports had come in advance as 
to what Southern families might expect, and plans 
had to be formed to preserve all valuables in the 
way of silver, gold, and gems, as these articles 
might be the means of procuring bread for the 
future. 

Daddy Dave was always ready in every emer- 
gency to suggest some wise way of escape. Rumors 
were flying that the enemy were coming — indeed, 
every horse’s foot on the bridge a mile distant was 
supposed to be the cavalry, and all were on the 
mve ready for a panic at any moment. The 
old man came to Mrs. W in the evening feel- 

ing his own importance as well as that of securing 
her valuables, and after much bowing and scraping, 
said : 


74 


DADDY DAVE. 


Missus, I neber sleep wun wink las’ nite tink- 
in’ ob dat army dat’s slio to cum to dis plase, an’ I 
liab no nosliun ob lettin’ dem villuns pint dey guns 
at yu an’ de gurls, nor put de rope roun’ yo’ nek, 
to mek yu tell wbar de tings is, an’ neder is I 
gwine to let dem hab dose two bays. So I med’tate 
on de plan an’ tink it bery sutable. It am dis : I 
want all de fambly silver pack up in dat tin trunk 
whut yung marster focli when he go abrode, an’ 
all de waches an’ finger-rings an’ sich stuff, an’ 
lemme tek de leetle carrige an’ de bays, an’ I gwine 
to de mountins, an’ when I no dey is pass by, den 
I cum back. Whut you tink ob it, mam ?” 

Tliere was a look of relief upon Mrs. W ’s 

face as the fact of saving her plate and jewels came 
into her mind ; but this soon vanished in the 
thought of Daddy Dave’s exposure and discomfort, 
and after a pause she replied : 

“ The plan is a good one as far as the horses and 
tlie things are concerned, but we cannot afford to 
lose you or have you suffer. ’ ’ 

Being much gratified with the last part of the 
mistress’s remark, the old man, after great encoun- 
ters with his specs and the old stock, now very 
shreddy, said : 

‘‘ ISiebber yu mine ’bout dat. Eny man dat’s 
pass tru two wars doan mine a leetle oneasyness, 
speshilly when he’s doin’ good to de widder an’ de 
f arderless. ’ ’ 

But how will you feed yourself and the horses ? 
There’s no money and no provisions in the country 
through which you will pass. ” 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


75 


(( 


>? 


Dat’s all ’ranged in de plan, mam. I gwine 
to fill de carrige-box wid con an’ otes, an’ den two 
or tree sides ob bakin, a bag ob tetters is all 1 want, 
an’ I kin do mi own pot-luck, an’ ef de pervishun 
gin out wliar I stais, I kin do a leetle bawlin’ an’ 
split sum rales fo’ dem, an’ in dat way pay fur me 
an’ de bosses.” 

But wbat if you should be robbed on tbe road, 

I or meet those raiders ?” 

“ Why, ole missus, yu doan tink I lib so long 
in dis wurl an’ doan no bow to tek car ob misef ! 
Dere’s mo’ ob de lion ’bout me dan de lam’, any- 
how ; an’ ole Dave sbo dem ef be kocb a chans. I 
gwine ter carry po’ Johnny’s revolver, whut I foch 
from Yirginny, den mi ole muskit whut’s bangin’ 
in mi hous kin tork when de ^kashun cums. Oh, 
you ned’n be ’frade, ole missus.” 

That musket was the traditional one that had 
slain its scores of Britishers in the Revolutionary 
War, and would be as effective now ; though he 
i said once, in showing this relic of the past, that 
“ she kicked powerful when she got started,” and 
doubtless this propensity was still with her, and we 
considered it fortunate for him that her fighting 
, proclivities were never tested. 

; Daddy Dave’s arguments with ole missus” were 
I always successful. The next day the articles were 
packed in the tin trunk and fastened with a small 
padlock, and the key was lost in the old man’s 
breast-pocket. The horse-feed and provisions were 
packed in the appointed place, and two comfort- 
ables were folded and put on the seat. All the 


76 


DADDY DAVE. 


blankets in the house had been sent to the hospitals 
and camp long ago. The chiefest and last comfort 
was in the form of a large bottle of whiskey, which 
he called the Oh be joyful,” and thought so good 
in time of sickness ! 

All eyes were brimming over the morning Daddy 
Dave left. After pronouncing the benediction 
upon ‘^ole missus” and the children, he turned to 
Uncle Jacob, who stood with the house-ser\^ants in 
the gallery, ready to bid him farewell, and said with 
much grandeur : j 

‘‘ Now, brudder, I leve de kar of dis fambly wid 
yu, de olest man on de plase ; now stan’ up like a 
man an’ a Chrishun dat yu is, an’ when dem vil- 
luns cum hyar, an’ yu no dey’s cumin sho’s yu i 
bo’n, noboddy kar how much dey go migratin’ ober I 
de plase (yu no dey gwine do dat enyhow) ; but 
yu jes’ wach an’ ef yu see dem movin’ dey foots 
to de big hous, yu jes’ say, ‘No, sar, yu kan’t 
go in dar. Nuttin’ in dar but ole missus an’ her 
darters ; no silber, no waches, no brespins, no per- 
vishuns, no nuttin’ ; ’ an’ ef dey mek as if dey ^ 
gwine enyhow, yu mus’ speke bery ’tarmin-like ' 
an’ say, ‘ Now, gemmen, ef yu go in dat do’, den 
it’ll be ober mi ded body.’ Now, brudder, no- 
boddy ’specs yu ter do dis for sartin, but jes’ mek ; 
b’leve. But ef it cums to drawin’ guns an’ bay- ^ 
nets, den it’s mo’ pruden’-like jes’ to step aside an’ j 
let dem pass in ; it’s de bes’ yu kin do onder de J 
circumstans. But be sho yu sarce dem a plenty 
while dey doin’ it !” 

Uncle Jacob’s body, during these profound direc- 


^^TILL DEATH DO US PART.” 77 

tions, was swaying to and fro in full accord, while 
the whites of his eyes appealed to Heaven to witness 
his entire acquiescence, and when the remarks came 
to a close he said, with great emphasis, Dat so, 
brudder David.’’ 

Two days after Daddy Dave left, the Northern 
army passed over the plantation, remaining two 
days. In that short space of time they accom- 
plished the utter destruction of the labor and ac- 
quisition of many generations. The cotton-gin, 
packing-house, saw-mill, grist-mill, were burned 
the first day. The work of the second day was to 
raze every cabin to the ground, even the blacksmith- 
shop, leaving the infirm old negroes without a 
shelter for their heads in the wintry months of 
January and February. One would think the 
besom of destruction satiated here ; but no : sheep, 
hogs, cows, chickens, and even the pet dogs of the 
little negroes were swept out of life ! The corn and 
potatoes were carried off in wagons by the army, 
and the dwelling-house for the family dismantled 
of everything useful and ornamental, but left stand- 
ing as headquarters of one of the generals, who 
doubtless had an eye to comfort, and found a good 
bed more pleasant than the accommodations of a 
tent. 

The morning the army left Greymoss nothing 
lived on either of the plantations except the hun- 
dreds of faces that "were black, and three white oiies^ 
who suffered with them ! The stillness that reigned 
must have been like that of Paradise before the 
creation of man ! There was not a duty for the 


78 


DADDY DAVE. 


slave to perforin, and the depth of their despair 
was too great even for singing or prayer, which is 
ever to them a welcome alternative. They wan- 
dered about silently, wondering if that scene of 
desolation was ever their home. Could it be possi- 
ble that this place, now marked by the charred re- 
mains of their old houses, the air filled with noxious 
vapors, the roads blocked with tangled masses of 
pine, oak, and magnoha trees, the very enclosure 
filled with broken hedges, matted vines, and even 
the old gallery robbed of its railing and steps — could 
it be possible that sunshine and gladness ever dwelt 
here ? Could these old octogenarians realize that 
all their years had been spent here under blue skies, 
balmy air, golden sunlight, and God’s own gift of 
peace and happiness ? 

Twenty years have gone their way since that 
withering sirocco passed over that beautiful land, 
bringing a blight with it that precludes all hope of 
this country ever knowing again its pristine glory. 
Many of the old slaves have gone up higher and 
have received the “Well done, thou good and 
faithful servant others are waiting — many of 
these on the same old ground, clinging to the 
memories of the old slave days. And I here record 
it as a tribute of love on my part, and of honor and 
respect to them, that not one soul of that great 
number left their home and mistress in those ago- 
nizing days, but clung to her and the old roof-tree. 

During these four years of war — when the negro 
had it in his power to make himself master of the 
land, being in many parts of the South left in 


^‘TILL DEATH DO US PAKT.” 79 

charge of the mothers, wives and daughters whose 
fathers, husbands and brothers were yielding up 
their lives, either on the field or in the hospital — 
there has never been recorded an instance of insur- 
rection or insubordination on their part, from the 
Potomac to the Pio Grande ! Their attitude dur- 
ing this time to their owners continued to be that 
of kindness and affection up to the day when the 
arbitrament of arms decided them to be no longer 
slaves, but a free, if not an independent, people. 
One’s own experience must not be gainsaid in this 
testimony to the fidelity of the slave to his master, 
when the fact of having spent most of the war 
period in what is called the black district ” is 
here affirmed. In this section of the State the pro- 
portion toward the last part of the war was ten 
white people to two thousand blacks ; the whites 
being women and children, and every night was spent 
in great security of feeling, and many times with 
the doors unlocked ! Now, if the lex talionis of 
the negro heart is the same as of the white man, 
and if the wrongs were real of which every boy and 
girl who reads at all have been taught and told, and 
had dramatized before their eyes as facts ^ why is it 
that the negro, when such great occasions were 
offered him, did not avail himself of plunder, arson 
and bloodshed ? The fear of punishment was not 
before him, for there was no law in the land ; a 
jury could not have been impanelled unless it had 
been made up of the hoary heads of his own race. 
How can such inconsistency be explained ? The 
question is readily answered and the mystery solved 


80 


DADDY DAVE. 


by those who lived with him, who knew him best, 
and loved him most ! 

Eight glad were we that Daddy Dave was away. 
We were sure his heart would have broken to see 
the old people raking up the wasted corn around 
the feeding-places of the army horses, to boil it in 
ashes and eat themselves, and give to ‘‘ ole missus” 
and the girls. It was all they had, and that with- 
out salt ! 

Tlie bridges were all burned, the railroad-tracks 
were torn up, the wires were down, and Mrs. 

W was parted from her three sons by the army 

of invasion. Not a letter could be received, and 
even a message failed to find its way to the mother 
except as some stray soldier, on his way home, 
would leave a word of love which had been en- 
trusted to him weeks before. The life on the plan- 
tation now was one of loneliness, sorrow and priva- 
tion. Several of the old negroes, even in these 
few weeks, had died for want of food and warm 
clothing — which things were impossible for the mis- 
tress to provide. She longed to depart from a scene 
of distress, where sunshine and gladness once had 
its dwelling-place, but now was covered with a pall 
of clouds and darkness. At the end of three weeks, 
late one afternoon, something on wheels was spied 
turning into the long avenue — a sight so novel at 
Greymoss that the house-servants hastened to the 
gallery to conjecture as to who or what it might be. 
There was not a horse in the country around, and 
nothing left upon wheels that could be hauled away 
after the army. Aunt Sibby’s old eyes were the 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


81 


<( 


99 


first to recognize the horses, and she came as fast as 
her old, weak frame would permit to give the first 
tidings to ‘‘ ole missus.” 

“ De Lord be prased ! it’s bro Dave an’ de bays, 
as sho’s you bo’n.” 

Cuffy’s nimble feet, no longer those of a child, 
could not overcome the early training, but ran to 
the outer inclosure to welcome the carriage. It 
was an echo of the old life ; and his face, that 
scarcely wore a smile in these days of hunger and 
idleness, actually broke out into a laugh at the sight 
of the old man and the horses. There was no white 
gate to open now — no, not even a piece of the fence ; 
in its stead a charred, blackened line to indicate 
what might have been. The old man’s heart was 
too heavy to grant Cuffy his accustomed nod and 

howdy ” as he drove past him around the old 
circle and up to the gallery steps, now made of 
blocks of wood cut from the trunks of trees. The 
very horses seemed bewildered, and did not know 
their home ; the trees cut down, the hedges levelled 
with the ground, and even the magnolias denuded 
of their evergreen branches. We can imagine 
Daddy Dave’s dismay, from the time he drove into 
the long avenue, on looking for the quarters” 
that used to be on either side, to find not a single 
house standing, and the destruction going ahead of 
him up to the door of the old mansion ! 

Mrs. W and her daughters knew their first 

gleam of pleasure since the dark days began when 
they came out to give the old slave a welcome ; but 
the old heart was too full for a word ; he seemed 


82 


DADDY DAVE. 


powerless to do anything but look ! A crowd soon 
gathered to see and hear. One of the men took the 
trunk of valuables into the house, while the boys, 
eager for something to do, lifted from the carriage 
a few small packages, and by this time Daddy Dave 
had speech enough to say : 

Dar’s sum hom’ny an’ sum coffy dat 1 trade 
fur ’long de way. 1 no’d. yu mout be starbing ; 
dey tole me on de rode dat de villuns tek all yu 
hab fur ete.” 

The horses were delivered to the care of Uncle 
Jacob, and Daddy Dave came into the house with 
the family to hear all that had happened during his 
absence, and to relate his own thrilling adventures 
V^ith the raiders and bushwhackers, and his narrow 
escapes in keeping out of the way of the army. 
Aunt Sibby and Aunt Betty both stood in the 
room, holding up their chins in a most meditative 
attitude, and at each fresh detail shook their heads 
and ejaculated : ‘‘ ’Tane pos’ble, brudder David !” 

Mrs. W sat quiet, and allowed her faithful 

companions to relate the happenings at home, 
which they did in a most graphic manner. On this 
occasion the old man allowed himself to be sur- 
prised by their dreadful disclosures, and at each 
incident of loss would exclaim: ‘‘Not a boss 
lef’ ; eben dem leetle Shetlan’ ponies — neber’ll do 
dem eny good. It wus bordachus impidence, an’ 
dat’s sho’.” 

The old man was so absorbed in his mistress’s 
losses as to apparently forget his own possessions or 
his house ; and the one silver lining to his dark 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


83 


(( 


>> 


cloud shone out when Mrs. W assured him that 

his gun, his drum and his chest (liis entire accumu- 
lation for more than eighty years) were safe and in 
her own room. When the army was near the plan- 
tation, fearing the soldiers would break open Daddy 
Dave’s house, left in her care, she had his valuables 
brought to her own room, the drum and gun put 
under her bed, and the chest in a corner, feeling 
sure that its appearance would be sufficient to secure 
its safety. Poor old ‘‘King,” the yellow hound, 
suffered the fate of his companions, and was now 
numbered with those who had gone before. When 
Aunt Sibby mentioned this last episode of the grand 
sacking, he drew a long breath, placed his elbows 
on his knees and his chin in his hands, looked up 
to the girls, and said : “ No mo’ ’possum now, 
chillun, sins dat dog ded ; an’ no nigger on dis 
plantashun kin ketch raccoon widout ‘ King.’ ” 

For many days after his return the old man 
roamed about the place in a restless way, looking 
up one avenue and then the other, as if in a pain- 
ful dream. He wandered from one spot to another 
whose associations were those of a lifetime. Four- 
score years before he was born on the place, and 
had never known any other home ; and since the 
master’s death had rarely been away from the plan- 
tation. Fortunately, the younger set of men began 
the work of felling trees and splitting the ones al- 
ready down, for building cabins for the old people 
and the little children ; and Daddy Dave lost him- 
self in superintending these jobs. The old love for 
“ bossing ” things came back, and he never allowed 


84 


DADDY DAVE. 


himself to be idle ; he tried to keep from ‘‘ tink- 
in’.” 

The surrender of General Lee’s army was known 
in less than two weeks after it happened — the news 
being brought to Greymoss, from mouth to mouth, 
as the soldiers would pass on their return to their 
homes. Although anticipated for many months 
past, the fact of its occurrence came with a crush- 
ing weight to the mother’s heart. Her very soul 
was in the cause, having sacrificed her all to its in- 
terest and given her own blood to sustain it. The 
negroes on both plantations knew that the success 
of the Northern army meant freedom for them ; 
but this did not change their deportment to their 
mistress, and the tender sympathy and affectionate 
manner of the old people, in her sorrows, her losses, 
and her great disappointment, is one of the beauti- 
ful pictures left of the old life ! 

Her characteristic sense of duty and her great 
energy led her to a wise conclusion as to what 
should be done forthwith in regard to the negro and 
his relation to freedom. They were free ; God had 
made them so, and they must know it from her 
lips, and the great change must be explained to 
them. After a consultation with the old heads a 
few nights after, it was deemed the best arrange- 
ment to send to the other plantation that evening 
and have all the negroes come to Greymoss and 
join them there, in assembling round the gallery the 
next morning at ten o’clock to hear the mistress read 
a paper. 

The morning came ; all were in the appointed 


“TILL DEATH DO US PART.” 


85 


place at the time specified. There were no hedges 
or fiowers to be trampled upon now, and all came 

under the sound of her voice. Mrs. W sat in 

an arm-chair on the gallery, Daddy Dave stood on 
one side, and his sister Sibby on the other. The 
mistress of Greymoss was a woman of wonderful 
force of character, of broad intellect and great 
executive ability. She possessed a refined, beauti- 
ful physique, and was not old enough for the 
sobriquet which the negroes had given her almost 
as a bride. She was small and delicate, and old 
Aunt Dinah said, She ’spec sum mornin’ to see 
em dun blow away, she so much like de angels.” 

This scene was a study for a master in art, and 
nothing but his brush could ever give a faithful 
picture of it. One white face — all the purer by 
contrast, with its sweet, sorrowful expression — and 
hundreds of upturned black ones, from the baby 
prattling in its mother’s arms to the old ones stooped 
and gray, leaning on the staff. The paper was 
opened. It was a copy of Mr. Lincoln’s Emancipa- 
tion Proclamation. She began to read, feeling in 
her own heart that freedom meant to her the break- 
ing up of all those ties as dear as life itself — a doing 
without that sympathy and love that had been hers 
from infancy, when one of the first words that came 
from her little lips was Mammy.” For them she 
knew it meant, in the present, trial, hardship, pov- 
erty, loneliness, and death for the many in front of 
her who were tottering above the grave, who had 
spent a long life of happiness without the trouble 
of making it so. With these thoughts filling her 


86 


DADDY DAVE. 


mind, we marvelled that she could still read, and 
read on, to the end. 

The paper was folded, and all was still, except 
the gentle zephyr that danced in the leaves of the 
live-oaks under which they stood that April morn- 
ing. The scene now grew in interest. The oldest 
people were nearest the mistress, that each word 
might be carried to their dulled ears ; and as the 
truth sank into their hearts their old bodies swayed 
to and fro, while the big tears rolled from their eyes 
and fell upon the ground. It was a time of trouble 
to them, for the future, to many of them, though a 
short period at most, was unknown and untried, 
while all the days behind them were passed in cer- 
tain comfort and happiness. 

Those of the crowd in middle life came next, and 
their faces expressed mingled emotions of hope and 
fear — hope that freedom might bring to them a 
cessation of work — for indolence is a natural charac- 
teristic, handed down through a long line of pro- 
genitors — and of fear lest the glorious visions de- 
scribed to them by the chaplains in the army, while 
persuading them to leave their homes, would prove 
only a dream. Many of the younger set were lean- 
ing upon their hoes, listening to every word. They 
had been called from the fields, where they were 
attempting to break the ground with this imple- 
ment, ready for a few grains of corn, found here 
and there along the passage of the army. The 
ploughs had all been broken, and there were no 
horses in the land. Their faces had a happy-go- 
lucky look upon them, their white teeth shining 


TILL DEATH DO US PART.” 


87 


it 


round their ample mouths. Life had always been 
a gay affair to them, and why should it not be so 
now, when every negro was to have forty acres 
and a mule, all his own ! 

The mistress paused, and said : 

This is an important day for you all ; for the 
first time in your lives, your future will be left to 
your own care. The men will now have to support 
their own families, provide their own houses, furnish 
their own provisions, buy their clothes, pay their 
doctor bills, supply their own medicines, and bury 
their own dead. My heart aches for you all. You 
see my own condition. 1 am stripped of every- 
thing — no money, no cotton, no stock, no houses or 
barns, no gin- house nor screw, and great bodies of 
land without a fence to protect them. I shall help 
you in every way that I can. The old people shall 
always share what 1 have, and shall never be 
neglected. You have been faithful friends and 
trusted servants when great sorrows pressed upon 
me ; I shall never forget your goodness and care of 
me during these four years when 1 have been alone, 
when yQu were ever ready and willing to serve me, 
and your faithfulness and sympathy when Sherman’s 
army was here will always stay upon my heart. The 
old people I will care for, but the younger men 
must work the crops, and be paid in cotton, corn 
and potatoes, or wait tdl the crops are sold, and 
then receive their portion of the money. I do not 
wish any of you to remain on either plantation if 
you think you can better your condition elsewhere. 
You are free and can do as you please. Your young 


88 


DADDY DAVE. 


masters will each go to his own profession, and 
their return home will not alter mj plans. My 
only hope for a crop this year is to buy, on time, a 
few of the broken-down army horses, and put in a 
small portion of the land. These horses can only 
work part of the day ; but, with the' help of the 
bays, we must do the best we can. The family 
silver from time to time will purchase corn and 
meal for those who remain on the place till the new 
crop comes in. Now go to your houses, talk the 
matter over, and come back in a few days and let 
me hear your decision.’’ 

She arose from the chair and went into the house. 
The long procession that passed down the avenue 
that morning was a very thoughtful one ; much 
more so, than before they realized, what freedom 
was in the present. The old people’s hearts were 
sad at the hardness of the situation for them. It 
would indeed be a new experience to live in hired 
cabins, to need the doctor’s attention and not have 
it, because there was no money to pay him for each 
call. It would be hard to be sick and in pain, and 
feel the aches might be driven away if the usual 
winter present of warm red flannel garments were 
provided to protect their poor old bodies. And 
how could they live without the hot, nutritious 
soup furnished every day, whenever they chose to 
call for it ? Poor old creatures ! they had always 
been full of faith — that faith which removed moun- 
tains. Now they would pray, ‘‘ Be ye warmed 
and fed, ’ ’ but would it warm them with clothing or 
strengthen them with food ? 


TILL DEATH DO US PART. 


89 


cc 




The young people left the big house in a bewil- 
dered condition of mind, and had the question 
been put to them as to its cause they would have 
failed to answer it ; but the next few months’ ex- 
perience put the reality of the meaning of freedom 
beyond a doubt. 

Six months had passed. The young masters had 
returned home, mere wrecks of their former selves. 
Donald had received an injury in the artillery which 
was to make him unfit for active life the rest of his 
days. Henry came home upon two crutches, with 
a wounded knee, and James’s eyes were almost 
without sight from a fragment of a shell, which in- 
jured the nerves, and for the remainder of life must 
give up his profession and engage in such employ- 
ment as might be done in the sunlight. He took 
charge of both plantations, letting out the land in 
small shares to the negroes, and receiving the rent 
in portions of the crop. 

The younger negroes left the old places and went 
to live on strange plantations, and their places at 
home were filled by new hands. The foolish idea 
filled their brains that no colored man could be free 
who remained on the place where he had been a 
slave ! The old slaves were glad of the care and 
protection of the mistress ; and, though unlike the 
old time, it was home, where they hoped to end 
their days and have their bones laid with their an- 
cestors who had gone before them for many genera- 
tions. This last wish was speedily accomplished, 
for, before the first anniversary of the emancipation 
came round, a score of them had been gathered to 


90 


DADDY DAVE. 


their people. Daddy Dave said, after coming from 
the funeral of Uncle Jacob, that ‘‘ Dey stumiks 
wus empty, dey backs wus cole, an’ dere wus nuttin’ 
to do but to die.” 

And this commentary was not confined to the 
colored people alone, those melancholy years after 
the war, for the sufferings, privations and hardships 
of the white people now was in proportion to the 
luxury and comfort of the better days. It was hard ' 
for the young, but heartrending for the old who ; 
had lived so long and so well, who never knew a , 
care and but few mental or physical pains ; and the | 
effort to adjust themselves to the new regime came j 
too late to their furrowed cheeks and hoary locks ; | 
nature failed to bear the strain, and their brave, 
generous spirits yielded in the struggle, and they ' 
sought a better country, where the inhabitants are i 
never sick for want of food, or cold for lack of j 
clothing — where there is fulness of joy and pleas- ; 
ures forevermore. ” 


PAKT III. 


DADDY DAVE AS A FREE MAN. 

Another year passed. The little town close by 
had been garrisoned with two companies of in- 
fantry, besides cavalry and a few pieces of artillery, 
and their presence was a license for the negro to 
roam the country over, pilfering for their daily 
sustenance. Work and freedom were by no means 
synonymous to them, and they looked confidently 
to their late benefactors to supply all needs while 
they enjoyed their own sweet wills in a life of idle- 
ness. Each month ahead of them was the promised 
time for the coming of the mule to work the forty 
acres which Uncle Sam w^as sure to give them. 
The country was in a state of confusion. Even the 
old heads were bewildered, and a sort of demorali- 
zation was apparent in them all. The young negroes 
who had left the home at Greymoss did not feel 
like showing their faces again at the big house, but 
came every Sunday to the brush shelter which they 
had erected on the site of the old chapel after it was 
burned, not for religious motives, but to hear the 
news, and to persuade the old people of better ad- 
vantages and greater privileges on some other planta- 
tion than the old home. Of course, since the sur- 
render of the Southern army, no white minister had 


93 


DADDY DAVE. 


had the opportunity of preaching to the negro, and 
the result of this lack of association with the white : 
people, and of their religious performances being ; 
in their own way, can be better imagined than de- J 
scribed. From the sounds that rent the midnight } 
air, and the flashing of their torches, one might ■ 
have felt suddenly let down among the Hottentots 
and Bushmen ; and a surprising fact connected with 
this new religion was, the old negroes joined in it 
all — whether through fear of the taunts of the 
young set, if they remained away, or from a desire 
to find comfort in the ‘‘ meetin’ ’’ which had once 
been their solace and comfort, one cannot say. 

Daddy Dave was too respectable to attend their 
meetings ; but, from the wild stories he would bring i 
‘ ‘ ole missus’ ’ on Monday morning — having met with 1 
the people when they came to Grey moss on Sunday, | 
and listened to them — it was evident to the family j 
that he, too, had become restless and meditated a ^ 
change. “ Bro Pompey tell me dis, an’ bro Dan- ! 
ton tell me dat, an’ ebry man mus’ tri fur hissef, 1 
to no’ sumtin mo’ ’bout dis freedum bizness, an’ all ] 
de yung trash mek sport ’kase I sta’ by de white j 
fokes, an’ I git no peece nohow. ” 

Of course the mistress used every argument to 
induce him to give up this foolish idea of going 
away, but when she saw his mind shaken on the 
subject, she acquiesced, and told him it would be 
the best thing he could do to go away and try free- 
dom for a while, at any rate. 

On Monday morning early an old broken-down 
cart came to the door of his cabin to move him.” 


DADDY DAVE AS A FREE MAN". 


93 


To this cart was hitched a calf, held in its place by 
a network of rope — not that it required a harness 
to keep its spirits down, for every bone could be 
counted, and we found out afterward that this for- 
lorn steed moved only by shouts from its master 
and the most vigorous blows inflicted by a long 
pine pole kept for the purpose of urging it onward. 
The household stuff consisted of the aforesaid gun, 
drum and chest, with the addition of an iron pot 
1, and spoon and a few pieces of old quilts. These 
latter had been burned into rags by the fire — as he 
i wrapped^ hi niself up in them and slept on the great, 

' old hearth of his cabin. He could never be induced 
to sleep on a bed, declaring that such pamperin’ 
alwais mek niggers no ’count, an’ gib dem cole be- 
sides.” The old pine logs in the chimney sent 
forth numberless sparks while he slept, and these 
played a game of havoc among his quilts. The 
mistress always retired with the feeling of his 
insecurity, and told him it was the goodness of 
God that kept him alive. Watch, his dog, was 
dragged out from under the cabin, where he had 
sought refuge, yelping between the kicks from his 
master ; a rope was fastened round his neck, and 
tied under the cart. Poor dog ! from the longing 
looks he gave to the ‘‘big house” we knew he 
wished there was no such thing as emancipation. 
He did not like freedom, and considered his master 
a very unwise man to go off in this plebeian way 
after occupying such a position in society as seemed 
accorded to Daddy Dave. Watch’s tail was entirely 
lost to sight — though usually of very respectable 


94 


DADDY DAVE. 


length — as he walked up the avenue with his head 
hanging and his great yellow ears flopping over his 
homesick countenance. 

When all preparations for the moving were 
ended, Daddy Dave came into the house, to And 
the mistress and the young ladies sobbing out their 

hearts. He advanced to Mrs. W with the key 

and padlock in his hand, and gave them to her, say- 
ing : 

Well, madam ” (not ole missus ’’ this time), 
‘‘ I hab jes’ step in to say good-by, an’ gib you de 
lock an’ key.” Here, seeing their tears, he choked 
back his own, and said : 

‘^Well, madam, de time hab cum when de 
ralashun ob missus an’ slabe dun broke up, an’ de 
time hab also cum for we to part. 1 gwine ter mek 
a home fur misef, bein’ a free sit’zen at dis time, 
an’ trus’ yu an’ de yung ladies” (not ‘‘chillun” 
now) “ will git on well an’ tek kar’ ob yo’ selbes.” 

Here his eyes filled and his lips quivered ; and 
when he shook their hands, he broke down, sobbed 
out, and said : I mus’ go ; I mus’ go. Ef 1 sta’ 
on dis plase eny longer 1 luze de ’spect ob mi own 
kuller. I no I gwine ter hab trubble, but 1 mus’ 
go.” 

With these words he went quickly out of the 
house, as if he feared the giving away of his own 
resolution. He walked down the av6nue at the 
side of the cart, for the would-be ox was not strong 
enough to pull the driver, the goods, and their 

owner. Mrs. W and her daughters stood on 

the gallery gazing after the old man till the pro- 


DADDY DATE AS A FKEE MAN. 


95 


cession was but a speck in the distance, then went 
in the house and cried together, wondering what 
life would be without Daddy Dave, who had been 
their father and friend for all the years that had 
passed away. This was the month of July. Fire 
was not necessary for comfort, vegetables were 
plenty, and fruits were hanging in their mellowness 
from all the trees. Nature was unusually lavish in 

her gifts this year, and Mrs. W knew that the 

old man would not suffer as long as the cold weather 
kept its fingers off the poor old body, so full of 
pains and so illy clad for the attacks of rheumatism. 

The month of November came. The nights and 
mornings were cold, and a few days before, the 
frost glistened in the sunrise on the vegetables and 
fiowers laid low by its icy touch. Daddy Dave 
had never been back to his old home — not that he 
was disinclined, but for shame’s sake he kept away. 
The loving hearts at Greymoss knew the place of 
his exile, and, only the night before, had been con- 
triving some comforts for him and planning how 
they should reach him safely, for pilfering was the 
order of the day, and even the mail and express 
were far from safe. James had promised to deliver 
the package safely to the old man the next time he 
came to the plantation. 

The following morning was one of the beautiful 
November days in the South — crisp and cold, with 
clear skies and bright, yellow sun rising. Tom, the 
little negro — who was now man-of-all-work at Grey- 
moss — was on the gallery, sweeping, before the 
ladies were out of their chambers, and seeing a 


96 


DADDY DAVE. 


very queer-looking vehicle coming toward the house, 
gazed until the near approach revealed the old 
man and Watch. He was quite overjoyed, and 
lingered for a hand-shaking before he spread the 
good news in the family. Then running into the 
mistress’s room in breathless excitement, he said : 

Ole missus, whut you tink Old Uncle Dave 
out dar, an’ want to see you. Him an’ Wach is 
mity hongry, an’ de ole man’s sic’.” 

At this joyful tidings from Tom the young ladies 
hurried through a limited toilet, and went to their 
mother’s room in time to welcome the old man. 
He came in feebly and slowly, followed by the dog. 
All his grandeur gone, there was nothing to re- 
mind one of the fine old negro gentleman who had 
spurned a free negro in years gone by, and who 
prided himself on his good looks and comfort. His 
face was gaunt with hunger ; the two garments he 
had on — a coat and a pair of breeches — were only so 
in name, being a collection of rags held together by 
thorns that the trees of the wood had furnished as 
he came by, to hide his ashy nakedness from those 
who loved and mourned over him. Some pieces of 
leather were tied about his feet, to resemble shoes, 
which kept out neither the cold nor the rain, but 
left his toes out, to mock the idea of respectability. 
In his hand he held the remnant of a straw hat, 
plaited doubtless by his own fingers, but now with- 
out a rim, and little crown to speak of. The use 
of the Jim Crow ” was a thing of the past, as his 
hair was fiattened into a thick mass on the top of 
his head ; but the specs, the dear old specs, were 


DADDY DAVE AS A FREE MAFT. 


97 


in their place ! Hunger, pain, privation had not 
altered and this was the one thing, the only 

one, that remained of our old Daddy Dave ! Watch 
came to get his welcome, too — in circumstance and 
condition very like his master, his skeleton very 
Gothic in its architecture and covered over with 
a loose, mangy hide ; his great yellow eyes too 
feeble and dull to smile their gladness to be at home 
once more ; and the pitiful wag of his hairless 
tail was the most melancholy part of the home- 
coming, but spoke volumes to us of his happiness 
as well as determination never to suffer again ! 

The old man advanced to the bed, where the mis- 
tress still rested ; the hand-shaking was done in 
silence and tears, and to little Tom, who stood near, 
the welcome was a queer one. He wondered why 
people cried so, when he knew they were happy ; 
for they had been longing for the old man, and 
now when he had come home, they could not tell 
him a word ! A chair was placed at the fire, and 
the old man told to occupy it. He sat a few min- 
utes, silently thawing out his poor old body — his 
heart did not need it — and after a time turned his 
face toward the bed, and began : 

Ole missus, I’se cum home to die. Mi h’art 
all broke up ; an’ mi po’ boddy all gon to skin an’ 
bone ” — looking down at his wasted frame — mi 
close all gon to rags, an’ fassend wid tho’ns, an’ 
mi boddy rack wid panes. Doan tork to me ’bout 
freedum ; it’s a lie frum beginnin’ to en’, an I 
gwine ter de barraks quic’ as I git worn an’ tell 
dem whut I tink. ” 


98 


DADDY DAVE. 


Here his sobs echoed through the room, and all 
the eyes there except Tom’s were dimmed with 
tears. Mrs. W interrupted the silence, say- 

ing : 

‘‘I am glad you have come back to us again. 
Your house is just as you left it. I knew you 
would come sooner or later, and no one has been in 
it since you went away. The key hangs there by 
you, and after you get some nice hot coffee and a 
warm breakfast, take it and get your things fixed in 
it, and never be so foolish as to go away again, for 
you are too old to work now, and we will take care 
of you.” 

De Lord be prased fur dem words ! — wort’ 
mo’ dan all de lies ’bout freedum. I dun tase ’em 
an’ 1 no boddy but a fule gwine ter ete de 
hole apple atter wun bite tell him it’s rotten. But 
I gwine into toun an’ tell dem villuns whut 1 tink, 
’fo’ dis da’ is dun.” 

He kept his word in regard to his delivery at the 
barracks, and soon after the inner man was 
strengthened, and before he took possession of his 
house, he set out for the journey to town. 

Donald was sitting in his office busy at his writing 
when a messenger came for him to hurry to the 
barracks to keep Daddy Dave out of trouble, for 
he had gone to the quarters, swearing his intentions. 

Donald hastened the few blocks to the barracks, 
and there was presented to him a scene in which 
the sublime and ridiculous were equally mingled. 
It was office hours. The colonel and his staff were 
sitting around a table covered with papers ; the 


DADDY DAVE AS A FREE MAl^. 


99 


guard was walking in front of the entrance, and 
from the various accoutrements around him, one 
would suppose that Daddy Dave’s resolution would 
have failed him. But no ; with his voice strength- 
ened by the coffee, and pitched on a very high key, 
and interspersed with most dreadful oaths, he was 
saying : 

‘‘ Look at me rite in de eye ; do yu call dis 
freedum, yu cussed villuns ^ In de fus plase, 
whar’s dat forty akers an^ dat mule an’ dat burow 
bizness dat we was all gwine git rich on ? Look 
at me, I sa’, wid mi skin lookin’ ashy like a fo’-de- 
wah free nigger, an’ not a poun’ ob mete on mi 
boddy. Wus I dis wa’ in slabery ? Wus I lookin’ 
like dis when mi ole marster keep me ? Did I 
eber dres in rags like dis on de ole plantashun, 
whar de good, warm wool grow on de sheeps’ back, 
an’ all nigger hab to do is to shar ’em an’ spin ’em, 
an’ den mek close. De buzzard doan want me now. 
Doan yu tork to me ’bout edecation. I got la’nin’ 
’nuff dis minit to sho me whut yu is — a pack ob 
cussed villuns, an’ wusser dan eny Britishers dat eber 
plant dey foot on dis Ian’. We wus all doin’ bery 
well, wid pece an’ plenty an’ happynes in ebery 
cabin on de two plases, an’ all on a sudin’ yu git 
too smart an’ tink yu do sumtin’ grate an’ sot de 
niggers free. An’ whut did dat do fo’ de nigger, 
’cepin’ jes’ to mek him a liar an’ a teef. It wusn’t 
Ivh fur de nigger atter all ; yu felt like we wus 
gittin’ on too good doun hyar, an’ gittin’ too rich 
wid razin’ cotton an’ cuttin’ rice, an’ yu cum an’ 
spile it all. Well, yu git yo’ wish, an’ mi kal- 


100 


DADDY DAVE. 


kilashuns is dat yu better go back wliar yu cnm 
foni, an’ let de nigger be. Yu dun him like yu 
do yo’ ole bosses when yu kan’t git no mo’ werk 
out ob him— yu tun him out to graze whar dar’s 
no gras.” 

Donald stepped into the quarters, and, seeing how 
excited the old man was, insisted upon his going 
back to Grey moss, for fear of further trouble, and 
succeeded in getting him into the street. As Daddy 
Dave left the officers, he looked back, shook his 
fist, and shouted to them : 

Doan leriame eber see wun ob yo’ cussed faces 
at Greymoss no mo’ ; doan yu cum to dat orchid 
no mo’, nor to de tater pach. Min’, I home now, 
sottin’ rite in mi hous’, an’ ef I hyar eny ob yo’ 
rackit dar, mi ole muskit will tell yu sumtin’ you 
kin neber forgit, an’ neber want ter hyar agin. 
Min’ whut 1 sa’.” 

Daddy Dave was a character in his own country, 
and a privileged one. The whole garrison, officers 
and men, were fully acquainted with this old hero, 
and knew there was no uncertain sound about him, 
either in war or politics, and were somewhat pre- 
pared for this piece of his mind, having heard of 
his experience in freedom. Their surprise gave 
way to amusement as his speech proceeded, and, 
when the old man went away from them, a roar of 
laughter was heard through the building, and three 
cheers were sent up for Uncle Dave and Free- 
dom !” 

Several years have gone their way, and their pas- 
sage was marked by few changes at Qreymoss. The 


DADDY DAVE AS A FEEE MAK. 


101 


great, wide house, the old mansion, is still occupied 
hy the mistress and her daughters. Daddy Dave, 
now almost blind, and feeble, too, is their sole 
friend and companion. Tom asserted his freedom 
months ago and went away ; Aunt Sibby, faithful 
to the end, sought a better country several years 
ago. 

Mrs. W was truly old now. Her hands had 

lost their cunning, her step its fleetness, and her 
shoulders were bent, not with the weight of years, 
but with the burden of care and sorrow which seemed 
to press heavier each day. Her beautiful sunny 
hair was folded in snow-white bands across her 
brow, and those brown eyes, that were her charm 
in the other life, were faded — perhaps the color 
had gone out with the tears, the many tears, that 
had washed them since the evil days came. And 
they seemed to be looking into the depths beyond, 
and spoke to us of her longing to cross to the other 
side, of her yearning for those who had gone be- 
fore her. These longings were soon satisfied. 

One morning the long avenue leading to the old 
mansion presented a grotesque sight. Along the 
old drive, now almost grown over with weeds and 
grass, were seen a crowd of faces, both black and 
white, all going with earnest purpose to the big 
house. Some were on foot — some were in carts 
drawn by oxen, calves and mules so lean and halt 
that one realized at a glance the poverty of the 
land, and felt that the old rope harness was strong 
enough to hold these worn-out, ill-fed beasts. In 
these dilapidated vehicles were the few old faithful 


102 


DADDY DAVE. 


people who clung to ole missus,” but had been 
compelled to seek a home with their children away 
from the plantation. As these neared the house 
and were lifted from their seats, the tears were seen 
to roll from their eyes, while their bodies swayed 
to and fro with grief. ‘‘Ole missus” was to be 
buried to-day. 

Her casket rested beneath the arch in the hall, 
just where her boy’s had been placed eight years be- 
fore. At the head stood faithful old Dave while 
the procession of black faces passed, one by one, 
and looked upon the form which had always been 
to them a vision of truth and beauty. The poor 
old man’s eyes were too blind to see the beautiful 
marble that rested beneath his wonted gaze ; but 
now and then he tenderly laid his old horny hand 
on her brow, and lovingly put his fingers in her 
cold, stiff hands, bending over and letting his tears 
fall upon them, saying, between a sob and a moan : 

“ Mi bes’ fr’en’ gon, de las’ fr’en’ I got on dis 
’arth ; all ob yu kin cry now, fur dis blessed angel 
dun wid de trubble ob de wurl, an’ she lookin’ 
down rite now, an’ see de h’arts dat’s brakin’ for 
her.” 

All the negroes, young and old, hearing of her 
illness and death, had come from far and near — 
some of them forty miles on foot — to attend her 
funeral. It was the last link in the chain of their 
once happy life. It would require a longer time 
than the six years of their life of freedom for any 
real benefit to accrue to them from this new rela- 
tion. Indeed, their little ones may rise up and call 


DADDY DAVE AS A FREE MAFT. 103 

the day of emancipation blessed, but this fitness or 
satisfaction will never crown their hoary heads. 
Their graves will be made in hardness, and their 
peace and comfort will come to them after an en- 
trance into the celestial city. And this great crowd 
followed her to the cemetery, refusing to allow the 
undertaker to perform any ofiices for the dead. 
Daddy Dave was in his old place on the box, and in 
his hands were the reins that guided the old bays — • 
now shadows of what they used to be. He could 
not see to drive, and the driving was really man- 
aged by a coachman at his side ; but it was a great 
comfort to him to feel he was carrying the ‘‘ ole 
missus” to her last resting-place. At the grave the 
family and a large number of friends had gathered, 
and then came the army of black faces who knew 
and loved her so well. 

The coffin was lowered, and a shovel was handed 
to Daddy Dave, who, with tottering step, came for- 
ward, and feeling for the upturned ground, threw in 
the first earth, then gave the shovel to one next to 
him and stood there — the picture of a broken- 
hearted, friendless, despairing old negro — with the 
last tie severed and all of life behind him. ^ 

All was over ; the last sad rites had been per- 
formed, and he must return to a cheerless, lonely 
home. The old man pulled himself up into the 
carriage, and looked back toward the new-shaped 
mound, as if he longed for the rest that comes 
through the silent grave. On the way home, Donald 
and his sisters assured the old negro that he would 
be cared for as long as he lived, and after death be 


104 


DADDY DAVE. 


buried by tbe side of Aunt Sibby, Uncle Isaac and 
Uncle Jacob. 

After this mournful event, we noticed the de- 
cline in Daddy Da^e daily. His sight was now 
gone ; but his old energy asserted itself, and he 
would grope his way around his house, working his 
vegetables and cooking his own and his dog’s food. 
His drum, his gun and his chest were in his house 
— built by himself after the burning of the place on 
the old site, and after the old pattern. He would 
sit in the door of his house, looking with those 
sightless eyes up into the skies, and when asked 
what he was thinking about, would reply : 

“ Huttin’, honey, but ’bout de days dat’s all gon ; 
’bout yo’ par an’ yo’ mar an’ leetle Johnny, an’ all 
de ole niggers whut’s in glory — whar I gwine fo’ 
long.” 

Ever since John’s death. Daddy Dave seemed to 
be a changed man in regard to his religious feeling. 
He asked now and then to have the Bible read to 
him, and after driving the family to church, would 
go inside and hear the sermon, instead of his old 
custom, to lie upon the ground and go fast asleep 
till time to ‘‘ hitch up.” Once when Donald 
twitted him about the language he used at the bar- 
racks that day, he said : “ Well, son, de Lord no’s 
I wus mad dat da’, an’ I doan’ bleve I gwine suffer 
fo’ dis. Kase sich blarsted menners as dat kan’t 
be kyur’d ’cept by cussinL Dat’s de las’ cus eber 
sot on mi lip, cos I no whut I promis’ Johnny — 
an’ I gwine keep it, too.” Many months before 
his death, we could hear him in the still hours of 


DADDY DAVE AS A FEEE MAN". 


105 


the night at prayer, it being a peculiarity of the 
race to pray very loud. We knew he would not be 
with us much longer. — 

One day, groping his way into the big house on 
his staff, with his eyes wandering in different parts 
of the room from beneath his green shade, he called 
out, ‘‘ Honey, is you dar 

On being satisfied of the presence of the young 
mistress, he continued : 

“ 1 want yu .to rite mi will, fur I goin’ bery 
fas’ now ; de ole man gwine quic’, too, when he do 
start. I not got much to lebe, but whut I is got 
is gwine to dem dat’s good to me, an’ not to be 
waste by de yung trash, I kin tell yu.” • 

When do you wish it written. Daddy Dave ?” 

“ Jes’ as soon as yu kin, chile, fur we neber 
no whut a da’ is gwine ter bring fort’.” 

Why don’t you get Donald to make your will ; 
he’s a lawyer, and knows all about such things ?” 

“ Dere’s bery pertikler reson dat he not no 
’bout dis matter ; bime by, yu will onerstan’ de 
kase better ; an’ ef yu doan’ mine, 1 rudder hab 
de will mek in mi own hous’, an’ ies’ ’tween us 
two.” 

After being assured that his request would be 
granted the next afternoon, he sat down and rested, 
comforted, no doubt, in the thought of leaving this 
world prepared, as far as his business matters were 
concerned. We knew his spiritual matters had not 
been neglected, for his thoughts seemed to run 
upon heavenly things. He took a chair placed for 
him, assumed his old attitude, with his chin upon 


106 


DADDY DAVE. 


his hands and his elbows on his knees. Pushing up 
the shade from his eyes, he said : 

Honey, rede me ’bout de nu Jrewslem wid de 
strete ob gole an’ de gate ob purl. I gwine tru’ de 
gate fo’ long, an’ stanin’ rite inside will be ole 
missus, an’ she gwine sa’ to de gate-keeper, ‘ Let 
ole Dave in ; he ain’t bin a Chrishun long, but he 
mek up fo’ de los’ time. De blud ob Jesus dun 
wash him clene.’ ” The last chapter of Revelation 
was also read to him, and as the voice ceased he 
reached out his hand for the book — “ ole missus’s 
Bible” — felt it all over, put it to his lips, and re- 
peated, Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly, an’ 
tek me to de o’ner ob dis Bible.” 

‘‘ Honey, I tink I goin’ ter die in de nite, an eff 
I dus, yu look at de ole man in de mornin’ an’ sa’, 

‘ Po’ Daddy Dave. I no he’s gon to Heben 
but yu mus’n’t cri like yu did when sis Sibby 
die, fo’ I HI be so much better orf, habin’ mi two 
ise, an’ no rumatiz in de legs, an’ ’bov’ all, hyar no 
mo’ ’bout ’mansipashun. Sho ’nuff, Pse sic’ ob 
freedum.” 

Donald was interviewed that night, and furnished 
a formula from which to write the will, and also the 
legal cap and the piece of red tape to tie it — the last 
detail being necessary to Daddy Dave’s peace of 
mind. The afternoon came. The old man tidied 
up his house, placed the three-legged stool for the 
young mistress, and left the unoccupied doorstep 
for himself. Watch, feeling the importance of 
this occasion, sat upon his hind legs, outside, gaz- 
ing wistfully in the door, and looking as solemn as a 


DADDY DAVE AS A FREE MAN. 


107 


judge, wondering what this unusual preparation 
could mean — his eyes having never before seen a 
sweeping and dusting going on in his master’s 
house. The old quilts and blankets, or rather what 
used to be articles of this sort, were rolled up and 
taken from their accustomed place on the old wide 
hearth, and put in the corner, and the skillet and 
big iron spoon were put down by the old chest be- 
hind the door. The iron pot hung in the chimney, 
with the one meal of the day cooking in it, which 
was a mixture of hominy, peas and bacon, with 
plenty of red pepper added. The old man was 
never known to eat but one meal a day, and that a 
hearty one of his own preparing. To waste no 
time, the cooking was to go on while the will was 
making. The young mistress came out to the cabin, 
took her seat on the stool, arranged her portfolio, 
copied from the model the first part of the will, in 
order that the old man should hear the scratching 
of her pen and realize she was in earnest. 

Now, Daddy Dave, I am ready for you. Let’s 
begin.” 

He ceased his groping around to feel if things 
were in order, eased himself down on the doorstep, 
rested his back against the sill of the door, fixed his 
specs, and said : 

“ Well, honey, 1 no yu gwine ter tink it bery 
cur’ us, but atter a grate deel ob tinkin’ on dis mat- 
ter, I’se ’tarmin’d to lebe all mi ’state to Donal’, 
yo’ ol’est brudder, cos he’s alwais bin a feelin’- 
h’arted boy an’ trete me wid de ’spect dat’s belong- 
in’ fom wun gemmen to anudder.” 


108 


DADDY DAVE. 


‘‘ But, Daddy Dave, how about your children ? 
You ought to leave them your property. There’s 
Sam, who still remains on the old plantation, and 
Ike and John — and I don’t know how many more.’ ’ 

’Tain’t no use torkin’ ’bout dat, honey. De 
Lord no’s 1 hab no ’spect fur mi own kuller nohow ; 
an’ no cussed nigger gwine ter git eny ob mi 
b’longin’s, 1 kin tell yu dat ! Dat drum — whut 
kin tell a mity tale— an’ dat gun whut’s bro’t doun 
meny a Britisher ; an’ dat chist, dat yo’ gran’ par 
gin me when 1 fus went to hous’-kepin’, now dus 
yu tink eny nigger in dis settelment gwine git 
dese tings ? No, mam !” 

Daddy Dave, who did you marry when you 
went to housekeeping at G-randpa Donald’s ?” 

Kaising himself up from the doorstep with a 
grunt, as he moved his stilfened limbs, and gather- 
ing his staff in one hand and fixing his shade with 
the other, he replied : 

Jes’ lemme see ef dat pot’s a-bilin’, an’ den I 
cum back an’ tell yu dat hole tale — it’s a bery 
long story.” Feeling his way to the corner for the 
big iron spoon, he found it, and with his staff 
picked his way to the fireplace, gave two or three 
vigorous stirs in the pot, pinched off a pod of red- 
pepper from its many gay companions hanging on 
a string in the chimney, and muttered, half aloud, 
‘‘ Pepper’s a good ting when a body’s feelin’ a 
misYy bangin’ roun’.” Laying the spoon down 
upon the board that served as a mantelpiece, he re- 
turned to his seat, made himself comfortable, and 
began his story : 


DADDY DAVE AS A FREE MAIT. 


109 


Well, chile, dis is de beginnin’. When 1 wus 
a yung buck I tuk it in mi hed to marry, an’ yo’ 
gran’par, when I consult wid him on de subjeck, 
sed, sez ’ee, ‘ Dave, it’s de bes’ ting yu kin do — 

• git a wife, an’ it’ll keep yu out ob badness. Yu 
better tek Jo’anna, she’s a fine helty yung woman,’ 
an’ I’ll git yu a hous, an’ yu kin hab a yung 
hefier, an’ two ob de bes’ pigs, an’ yo’ patch, an’ 
do as well az eny ob de oler niggers.’ Well, me 
an’ Jo’anna we git marry, an’ lib like de buckrer, 
lemme see” — counting on his fingers — ‘‘ ’bout ten 
yeers, an’ in dat time we hab six ob de liklyest 
yung wuns yu eber see — an’ den I lef’ her.” 

The young mistress was surprised at this very 
sudden turn in the story of his happiness, and at 
his calm deliberation in telling it. She interrupted 
this romance with the question : 

‘‘ Why did you leave her. Daddy Dave ? Did 
you not love her ? Didn’t you care for your chil- 
dren ?” 

A merry look came into the old face, and push- 
ing up his shade and turning in the direction of 
the voice, he replied : 

“Oh, hone}", dem tings kan’t be ’splaned, 
’spechilly to chillun. An’ as to de ‘ Ivhi'n? 
here one of his old-time laughs, which we had 
heard so seldom in the last few years, broke from 
his countenance as he continued — “ ole marster sa’ 
he bleve I’d git tired ob eny black face, eben mi 
own chillun, ef 1 see too much ob dem, an’ he wus 
mity rite ’bout dat. Well, az I tole yu, we quit. 

I neber car’ fo’ no udder nigger till yo’ par wus 


110 


DADDY DAVE. 


married. Yo’ grate-gran ’par sed tomedat as I tiik 
car ob him when he wus a boy, an’ den went wid 
him tru collige, I mns go wid him home an’ see 
dat ebryting wus manige ritely. An’ I went wid 
him. Yo’ mar, she fetch yo’ par a big plantashun 
full ob de liklyest niggers I eber see. An’ de fus’ 
ting I no, mi ise wus sot rite on ’Nerva. You 
no, honey, in slabery time, when de gal lib on 
de same plantashun, dar wus no axin’ to be dun, cos 
de buckrer doan car how much yu marry, jes’ so 
yu doan go orf de plase fo’ de wife. Well, sir, 
dey gin us a big weddin’. Oh, I neber forgit dat 
nite ! Yo’ mar gib ’Nerva a fine white frock, an’ a 
vale, too ; an’ I dres jes’ like a dandy, an’ we marry 
rite in de dinin’-room. Ole Uncle Ned, he speke a 
fu werds, an’ den pernounce us man an’ wife. You 
no ’Nerva wus a fat, shiny-lookin’ gal, jes’ as blak 
as dat pot in de chimbly dar, an’ yo’ mar — she wus 
fill ob nonsense dem da’s — an’ she tell yo’ par dat 
’Nerva in her white fixin’s ’mine her ob a fli in a 
pan ob milk, an’ dat, ob cose, set all de niggers to 
larfin ! Well, we got on bery well fur sum time, 
an’ we hab ten fine-lookin’ chillun — sum ob dem 
wus gals, an’ sum ob dem wus boys. But atter a 
while ’Nerva an’ me got to ’sputin’ ’bout wun ting 
an’ anudder, tell wun nite 'we got to fitin’. Den 
she run to de big hous an’ tole yo’ par, an’ on de 
rode dar she scrach sum bind out ob hersef, an’, 
grate Gemeny ! yo’ par, wusn’t he mad ! Well, 
sar, he tuk me an’ shet me up in de korn-hous fur two 
da’s an’ nites, an’ gib me nuttin’ to ete but bred 
an’ water. But dat didn’t kyur de disese, an’ 1 tell 


DADDY DAVE AS A FREE MAN. 


Ill 


ole marster I neber goin’ bak to dat nigger agin, 
an’ I neber did. Sebrul yeers pass alter dis brash. 
I lib to mjsef in dat same lions whut de Yankees 
bu’n doun, rite on dis spot. Den 1 sorter git lone- 
sum, an’ want ’nudder wife. But nun on our plase 
6ute me. Yu no dey all sorter ’frade ob me, alter 
dem spats wid Jo ’anna an ’Nerva. So I sot mi eye 
on Wenus dat lib ober at Mr. Cranson plase. 
Den old marster, dat’s yo’ par, say he kan’t hab me 
warkin ten mile to her hous, I brake mysef all 
doun, an’ he link 1 mus gib it up. De trubble 
begin rit dar. 1 want Wenus, an’ she want me, 
an’ de boss not willin’. So 1 kan’t stan’ de ’spense, 
so I go to de big hous wun da’ an’ ole marster wus 
soilin’ on de gallery wid his foot on de baluster, an’ 
I sa’, ‘Ole marster, I kan’t do no mo’ werk. I 
cum to speke a werd to yu ’bout Wenus. De fac’ 
is, I jes pinin’ fo’ dat nigger, an’ I link yo’ mout 
by her fur me. Mr. Cranson sa’ he ax one tousan 
dollar fur her, 1 tell him yu kin pa’ dat, an’ mo’ 
too.’ Ole missus, yo’ mar, wus a soilin’ by him, 
an’ she lissen till I cum to de plase ’bout by in 
Wenus, an’ den she sa’, ‘ I wudn’t link ob byin’ 
Wenus fur Dave ; he wudn’t hab her six monts fo’ 
he’ll beat her, an’ dribe her ’way. Yu promis 
me yu neber will by or sell a slabe. We hab ’nuff 
’speriense wid Dave, an’ 1 link he’s better widout 
a wife, an’ ’cidedly mo’ peas’ble.’ Deni tole dem 
dar wus no mo’ good in dis nigger, an’ I gwine 
brake mi h’art. Yo’ par look sorry, an’ he say, ‘ Go 
to yo’ werk, Dave, an’ I see ’bout it.’ ’Bout a 
week alter dis conbersashun on de gallery, yo’ par 


112 


DADDY DAVE. 


rite a letter to Mr. Cranson, an’ he writ wun bak, 
an’ de matter all fix ’tween dem ; an’ I gon ober 
wid de wagin an’ fotcb Wenus, an’ we bab a nu bous 
an’ start all ober agin.” 

Tbe young mistress, touched by the sorrows of 
the unhappy Johanna and Minerva, ventured the' 
question, What became of Johanna and Minerva 
when you married Aunt Yenus ?” 

Jo’anna, she lib on de udder plase, an’ ’Nerva 
lib on dis wun ; but dey sa’ nuttin’ to me, an’ I 
nuttin’ to dem. Yu no, honey, it’s different wld 
niggers an’ white fokes. ” 

What became of Yenus, Daddy Dave ?” 

“ Why, she libin’ yet, de las’ time I hyar ’bout 
her.” 

“ Is old Aunt Yenus, on the old plantation, the 
one you are talking about ?” 

In cose, chile ; an’ de reson she libin’ ober dar 
an’ I ober hyar is dis : she an’ me part jes’ fo’ yo’ 
par die, an’ den he sa’ to me, ‘ Dave, I want to 
hyar no mo’ ’ bout a wife fur yu ; yu ain’t fit to 
hab a nice nigger, an’ I bleve yu git tired of de 
angels, ef yu hab ’em. I’ll git Wenus a nice hous 
fur her an’ her chillun on de udder plantashun, an’ 
yu sta’ in yo’ hous on dis plase, an’ yu’ll kotch 
it ef I hyar oh yo’ goin’ ober dere.’ ” 

“ Did Aunt Yenus have any children. Daddy 
Dave ?” 

‘‘ To be sho, chile, an’ plenty ob dem. Well, 
ni az I kin ’member, dar wus nine or ten ob dem.” 

Why did you part from her. Daddy Dave ?” 

How yu is too hard fo’ me. Sum sa’ wun 


DADDY DAVE AS A FREE MAN. 


113 


ting, sum sa’ anudder, but I tinkit wusdis — Wenus 
onertook to jaw me ’bout sis Hannali, an’ lubin’ 
her de moist ; I alwais sed I neber tek sarce fom 
mi own kuller, an’ so I ups an’ frales her, an’ den 
ole marster he steps in, an’ sez ’ee, ‘ Wenus, yu 
are too good fur dat quar’lsum old nigger. I am 
goin’ to git yu a nice hous on de udder plase.’ An’ 
he did. It’s fifteen yeers now, an’ I lib in mi own 
hous whar I is now (’cep’ dem tree monts of freedum, 
but I doan tork ’bout dat fillin’), an’ has alwais 
enjoy pece an’ quiet ; sosheatin’ wid buckrer, an’ 
habin’ leetle to do wid mi own kuller.” 

“ Daddy Dave, how many children did you have 
altogether ?” 

He pushed back his shade, paused over this per- 
plexing question, which, perhaps, had never been 
suggested to him before, and answered : 

‘‘ Well, I ’clar to God, I doan no fur sho, but 
de las’ time I tuk a reckinin’ on dis subjeck, I tink 
I hab sumwhar in sebenty hed. Dey is sprinkle 
all ober Yirginy, dene doun to dis plase in South 
Car’lina.” 

This last declaration was startling to the fair 
amanuensis, and she burst in upon his arithmetic 
with : How could you have so many children. 
Daddy Dave ? I never heard of a man having so 
many children !” Here the old man laughed out- 
right, and reaching forward his hand for the soft 
palm of the young girl, took it, and gave it a little 
squeeze, and answered : 

“ Bless yo’ h’art, honey, yu kan’t ’spec’ to no 
ebryting, an’ I doan’ ’spec’ to tell yu ebryting ; 


114 


DADDY DAVE. 


but I will sa’ dis — sum ob dem cbillun cum bi law, 
an’ sum didn’t — an’ dat’s de en’ ob mi tale, an’ now 
we gwine on wid de will.” 

The will was not returned to immediately, for 
this thrilling narrative had put the legal transaction 
far from the thoughts of the young mistress, and 
she sat awhile with her pen poised above the paper, 
as if in a dream. The blind old man, failing to ac- 
count for the silence, broke in upon her reverie 
with the question : 

Whut’s de matter wid yu, honey ? Yu needn’t 
bodder ’bout dat tale, cos two ob dem nigger’s gon 
to glory long ’go, an’ Wenus ort to be dere ef she 
ain’t. Don’t bodder ’bout dese tings — yu’ll hab 
’nutf to grieve ober, sho’s yu bo’n, ef yu lib long 
’nuif.” 

The will progressed, and was soon finished, mak- 
ing Donald sole heir to this large estate. Then 
placing his finger, by direction, on the handle of 
the pen, which was held over the paper by the 
young girl,’ he wTote : Dave Donald.” Two 

young gentlemen visitors at Grey moss were called 
to the old man’s house, and witnessed and signed 
the will. It was sealed, then folded and tied with 
red tape and handed to him. He felt it all over, 
and said : 

Tank yu, honey, fur de trubble ; an’ mine, 
doan yu neber tell Donald, fur den James an’ 
Henry mout hab dey feelin’s hert, an’ de ole man 
didn’t mene no harm. Ef de ’state was bigger, ef 
dere wus mo’ propity, den dey kin hab sum ob it.” 

He groped his way behind the door. The hasp 


DADDY DAVE AS A FREE MAFT. 


115 


was drawn, and lifting the lid of the chest, the will 
was pnt carefully away, and having again secured 
the fastening, he turned to the young mistress, as 
he walked to the door, and said : 

It won’t be long till dey fin’ it, an’ den yu 
kin tell de secret ; an’ when dey see yo’ ritin, den 
dey’ll no it wus dun ’cordin’ to law.” 

A few weeks after the will-making, one morning 
Daddy Dave failed to come for his usual hot coffee 
while the breakfast was preparing. This caused 
some anxiety, and the young mistress — the one who 
wrote the will — went do his house to know the rea- 
son of his absence. Watch was sitting in his ac- 
customed place in front of the door, waiting for it 
to be opened, when he would jump and catch his 
morning bread in his mouth. She knocked and 
waited, but there was no answer ; then pulled the 
latch, opened the door, and entered. There, rolled 
in the blanket on the hearth, was the lifeless form 
of Daddy Dave, still in death ! She called to him, 
but the ears were filled with the music of heaven, 
and heard not the earthly wail from her breaking 
heart. She stooped down and looked into the old 
face. She found no struggle there, but the gentle, 
kind expression he always wore when with those he 
loved. That morning he had caught a little of the 
sunlight of heaven and left it upon his face to tell 
her in her grief that he had gone through the pearly 
gate and left it ajar ! 

The day after, the body was buried as he desired, 
like the “buckrer,” no torches, and in daylight. 
As it was borne along the streets of the town. 


IIG 


DADDY DAVE. 


gentlemen came out from tlieir places of business, 
with hats off, and stood till the procession passed — 
a tribute of respect to the old slave who had been 
faithful in life, and now honored in death. 


NEW NOVEL BY ROBERT W. HUME. 


"THE HISTORY OF A RECLUSE." Price $1.00. In 
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Mr. Hume in this story treats of some of the practical diffi- 
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TWO NEW NOVELS BY IVAN TUR- 

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"AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN" and "•ASS’YA." Both 
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FUNK& WAGNALLS, Publishers, io& la Dey St., N. Y, 


A NEW NOVEL BY JOAQUIN MILLER. 

“ THE DESTRUCTIOX OF GOTHAM.'’ Price $1.00. 


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FUNK & WAGN ALLS, Publishers, lo & 12 Dey St.. N. Y 

















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